


The Creature in Rosswood

by wildly_empty



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Alternate Timeline, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Memory Loss, Platonic Relationships, Self-Harm, going fucking feral, mute characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:14:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 31,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27638720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildly_empty/pseuds/wildly_empty
Summary: In an alternate timeline, where the third member of ToTheArk comes into play. After being taken by the Operator, they wake up in Rosswood with no memory and covered in blood. With nothing but strange static in their vision, a notebook, and a hooded stranger for a roommate, they try to piece themselves back together. Promises are made, blood is shed, and secrets are kept.
Relationships: Jay/Tim, eventual jam - Relationship
Comments: 14
Kudos: 27





	1. Born Anew

The first thing they ever felt was pain.

Hot, pulsing pain that made their muscles and bones scream at them.

They wanted to go back to the oblivion they had just come from.  
_There’s nothing but pain_  
_Was I created for pain?_

They couldn’t remember anything.  
Not who they were, not their name, not a single memory was left in their head. 

_Am I dead?_  
Their eyes managed to blink open.  
A layer of static covered their vision, like an old tv that was malfunctioning, but transparent.  
_No, not dead, not yet._

Trees surrounded them, their trunks stretched toward the sky while their branches reached down for them.  
_I'm in a forest?_

Breathing hard, they slowly sat up.  
Their muscles were sore, as if they had used them past the point of exhaustion.

But they were alone.  
Nobody was going to help.

The sun was rising.  
So they rose as well.

Their head swam as they stood, so they stumbled to the nearest tree, leaning against it, and heaved whatever their stomach could manage to expel.

_Blood._

It dripped onto the leaves below them, staining their teeth red, coating their mouth in the metallic taste.

_Am I going to die?_  
_I was just born, I don’t want to die._  
_Not yet._

With this resolve, they wiped their mouth and straightened themselves. There was nothing but empty woods surrounding them. Picking a direction, they began to walk. They didn’t know where they were going, just that they had to go somewhere else. 

They were struck with a compulsion to cover their face, even though they didn’t know what they looked like.  
_I can figure out why later._  
_Right now, I need to keep moving._

They couldn’t see very well, they discovered, as the world was blurry no matter how many times they rubbed their eyes. The static didn’t help either, with its constant shifting and movement covering their vision.  
They found that looking at the sky for too long made their eyes hurt as well, and looking at the sun was a definite “no”.

But they could still see shapes and colors, and they could hear their surroundings, as well as being able to smell the woods around them.  
The birds were chirping, the sun made the sky a beautiful color, and the leaves made a rustling sound as they moved with the breeze.

All together a wonderful day to be born.

They immediately tripped on something poking out from the dirt, landing on their forearms.

_Nevermind._

They could feel the hot-pulsing of the bruises forming on their arms, as well as the stinging of their newly acquired scrapes. But they picked themselves up, dusting off what dirt they could from their pants and shirt. The newly spilled blood only mixed with the rest of the old blood and dirt on their skin. They tried to wipe it away but it only smeared, making their forearms a rusty brown color. 

_That’s an infection waiting to happen._

They must have walked for over an hour when they stopped, already overheated from the warm air. Their hair was long, they noticed, as it stuck to their face and neck, covering their eyes from time to time. It only made them heat up more, but they liked how it somewhat covered their face.  
Deciding to take a breather, they dropped themselves against a tree and tried to cool down.

_Might as well see what I’m working with._

They were wearing a black sleeveless shirt and cuffed jeans with rips on the knees, but both were dirty, covered in what they assumed was dirt from the forest floor and their own blood.  
Their shoes were black and went up to their ankles, with black laces. There was blood on the top of their left shoe from their earlier nausea.

Their arms were covered in blood and dirt as well, so they couldn’t tell what exact skin tone they had. Pulling up their pant leg, they saw that they were pale.  
_I don’t go outside much, then._  
They were overall thin, but when they extended their arms they noticed that they were slightly lean.  
_I wonder what I did to gain the little muscle I have._

Pulling up their shirt to further inspect themselves, they saw that they had fresh bruises, scrapes, and a few gashes marring their pale skin.  
_So that’s where the blood came from._  
Their rib cage was poking out from beneath their skin, only amplifying their ghastly appearance.  
_Guess I haven’t eaten in a while._

Their hands were a mess, with dark bruises on their knuckles and blood under their jagged fingernails. The skin on the side of their fingers was scarred, with sections of skin torn. 

_What happened to me?_  
It looked like they had fought for their life.  
_Did I win or lose?_

They pulled down their shirt, picking themselves back up again. They were still completely lost in the woods, and they hadn’t seen anybody.

 _Hopefully I’ll see someone soon_  
They were already wearing thin.  
_Hah._

Days passed.  
The nights lingered a bit too long.  
The sun rose and set.  
They stumbled and stood up again.  
And again.  
And again. 

With each sleepless pitch black night that they laid under a tree, they lost their mind piece by piece. They didn’t know if they wanted to wake up, only to wander alone. 

They still hadn’t seen a single soul.  
_Other people exist, right?_

They would look up at the night sky that they couldn’t see through the blurriness and static, trying to find constellations that they knew by heart, names and locations that they couldn’t remember learning.

Despite the blurry vision and static, they could still see somewhat well in the dark, but it was mitigated by the fact that the light hurt their eyes in the day.

Sometimes when they closed their eyes to rest they awoke to find themselves in a different patch of trees, as if they somehow were in a different part of the woods without moving.

And there were a few times when they’d feel as if the direction they were walking in led to something bad, so they’d quickly change course. Whatever had been in that direction made their ears ring and made their head throb the closer they got. They didn’t understand why, but they were willing to trust their instincts if it meant staying alive.

Once they had awoken from a quick nap only to get up and run instinctively, their instincts screaming that there was something dangerous coming for them.

 _There’s monsters here._  
But monsters weren’t real.  
They didn’t dare stop and turn to confirm, but their skin buzzed as if something was watching them run away.

_This place isn’t natural, even if it’s a forest._

_Or maybe my mind is dying alongside my body._

Their stomach was hollow, and their throat hurt from the lack of water. Only when their skin stopped buzzing did they stop, completely spent. 

_I won’t make it much longer like this._

On the third day, when they felt danger in the direction they were walking towards, they didn’t change directions. 

_I might as well see what it is, I’ll be dead soon anyway._

By the time they got to a clearing, they’d been stumbling, struggling to stay on their feet. They had to blink away the black spots that would creep into their vision so they could see what was in the clearing. 

There was a red tower in the middle of it, irregularly shaped and rusted. Something about it made their ears ring slightly, and the static in their vision seemed to buzz a bit more frantically.

But they already had set their sights on one last place to reach before they gave up.

_If I’m going to die, it’s gonna be inside the only structure I’ve ever seen._

_Maybe my body will be found easier like this, if someone is looking for me._  
_I hope someone is._  
_Or maybe I shouldn’t want someone to see my corpse, it will putrefy quickly in this heat, and the bugs will get to me even quicker._

Using the last of their waning strength, they practically crawled to the tower. The inside was hollow, and so they slumped in the shade it provided, letting their back hit the wall with a metallic thunk.

_Finally, I can go back to wherever I came from._

They felt their eyes close from exhaustion, and didn’t fight to keep them open. 

They slept peacefully for the first and last time.


	2. Red Eyes

When they realized they were conscious they wanted to cry out at the thought of being alive for another day.

_Just let me go back to where I came from,_  
_Please._

But something was off, there was something in the back of their head screaming: 

_Danger Danger Danger Danger Danger Danger!_

They opened their eyes.  
There was a figure in front of them,  
_A person._

Looking up to view the first face they’d ever see, they were greeted with a black pit, with red eyes and a red frown for a face.

_I’m alone, I’m alone, I’m alone, I’m alone, there’s only monsters here, there’s only monsters here_

Panic overtook them, and despite the exhaustion in their limbs they managed to somehow scramble out of the red tower. They half crouched a couple of arms distances away, head swimming with the sudden adrenaline that fueled their movements. But they kept their eyes trained on the thing still inside the tower, terrified. 

The sun was setting, illuminating the face of the _monster_ still inside the tower, its head turned towards them. 

They froze, staring at the monster, waiting for it to move. 

The monster stepped towards them.

_I can’t run away I can’t run I can’t run I can’t_

_Fight!_

They knew they’d die eventually, but they’d be damned if they were going down without a fight.

The figure took another couple of steps, its hands raised to _attack._

_Kill it before it kills me_

The first sound they ever made was that of a feral animal, a desperate creature that knew death was breathing down their neck.

Launching themselves toward the monster, they managed to knock it down to the ground, with them landing on top of it. 

_Make it bleed make it bleed make it bleed_

Dirty hands held the monster's throat, intent on squeezing the life out of it. 

But the monster soon overcame its tumble and flipped them both over, using its strength to press them into the ground on their front, holding their wrists behind their back. The air got knocked out of their lungs, they couldn’t get up, the monster was using its weight to keep them down on the dirt.

_I’m going to die_

The thought was almost comforting, but the terror at the thought of what the monster would do to them kept them from giving up. 

They thrashed around, trying to break free from the monster's grip. They were reflexively letting out animal-like snarls, in a vain attempt at trying to scare off the monster.

The monster only pushed them further into the ground, using its full weight to keep them there.

They could feel blood gushing out of their nose as they laid in the dirt.

Sensing that their fight was futile, they let out another noise that sounded more like a frightened, wounded creature than a human. 

They went limp in the monster's grip, energy completely spent. 

_Just kill me just kill just end it, end it, please_

They screwed their eyes shut, terrified.

Their own heartbeat was audible over the sound of the monsters breathing. 

A moment passed, and another, before the monster released its grip, pulling its weight away from them. 

_It’s not going to kill me?_

They quickly flipped themselves to their front, not wanting to keep their back to the monster. 

Said monster had one hand on its knee, the other reaching out toward them as if to help them up. 

Their mind went blank, staring at the hand. 

The monster's blank, frowning face stared back.

They numbly took the offered hand, not knowing what else to do, and the monster pulled them to their feet. 

The adrenaline had worn off, and so as soon as they got to their feet the world pitched sideways, causing them to stumble, legs giving out. 

The monster caught them by the arms, holding up their dead weight. 

They could feel their eyes rolling back into their head before they slipped into that familiar darkness once again.


	3. Delusion

Consciousness slowly crept back to them, silent and shadowy.  
They didn’t know whether to be glad or disappointed.

Their eyes were dry, keeping their eyelids shut. It took more effort than it should have to sit upright and rub them open. Their muscles felt like concrete, slowing their movements considerably. They opened their bleary eyes, it felt like their eyelids had turned into sandpaper.

 _I’m not in the woods._  
They were somehow indoors, in a building. 

The memory of the “monster” hit them, a branch to the face. They whipped their head around, taking in their surroundings. The first thing they noticed was that their hair was in a braid, as it settled on their shoulder when they turned their head. A rubber band held it in place.

They didn’t know how to braid their hair. 

_One problem at a time, I have to figure out where I am._

Their head had been resting on a thin pillow, with their body on top of a mattress covered with some sort of burlap tarp. There were a few empty plastic water bottles around it, as well as a beat-up, black backpack in the opposite corner of the room. Their shoes were neatly placed at the end of the mattress. 

There were two windows inside, but they were edged with broken shards of glass, tree branches poking in. The walls were grey-bricked, more prison-like than anything else. Calling it a bedroom was a generous way of describing it, as it was dilapidated, and seemingly abandoned.

The forest patiently waited for them outside, sun high in the sky, hurting their eyes.  
They must have slept for a while.

Rubbing their eyes again, they noticed the dark bruising on both of their wrists and gauze warped around their forearms when they pulled their hands away. They went to get up but felt something shift on their torso, and lifting up their shirt they saw that thier waist and chest were also securely bandaged. 

_Did the “monster” bring me here?_

The last thing they remembered was taking the “monsters” hand. But they were beginning to realize that in their delirium, they’d mistaken a black cloth mask for a monster's face. 

_The first person I’ve ever seen and I attack them._  
Shame and guilt burned in their chest at what they had done. They didn’t want to hurt someone who had most likely only wanted to help, but they had. The memories came back in fragments, of them knocking the hooded figure to the ground, of them wrapping their hands around the throat of someone who was still breathing. They remembered the persons blood pulsing beneath their fingers, who was fighting to stay alive just as they had been. They’d tried to kill that person.

 _Maybe that’s why I’m here alone, so I won’t hurt other people._

Their hands were wet, and they looked down to see blood coating their fingers.  
They had torn into the skin, their jagged nails sinking into them.

 _I wasn’t created for pain, I was made to create pain._  
Their chest hurt with a ferocity they had never felt before, not in this way.

 _Is my heart going to burst?_  
That would be a mercy. 

_I still don't know where I am, focus on that. Focus, focus, focus._  
Choking back pathetic little noises that threatened to spill, they rose on unsteady feet.

There was an old white door in the small room, but upon opening it they saw that it was just some sort of closet with nothing but debris and a window inside. Turning around, they saw a large main room outside of the “bedroom”, so they put on their shoes -getting even more blood on them- and limped to lean on the door frame. They must have injured their ankle when they attacked the hooded person.  
They noted that there was another entrance, a large set of old wooden doors, right next to the bedroom they were in, as well as numerous broken windows lining the walls. They tucked that information away, just in case they needed to escape quickly. On the opposite side of the building -which was just one large room and the bedroom from the looks of it- there was another entrance, but the large wooden doors were knocked off their hinges. Their head hurt, badly, making them close their eyes for a moment as they leaned heavily on the doorframe.

_Someone's here._

Their eyes snapped open. The “monster” was at the edge of the far entrance, black mask peeking from around the corner. They hadn't even heard footsteps, it was like they had just appeared out of thin air. 

Their first instinct was to bolt, to run out the door next to them.  
_But not yet, they didn’t kill me, maybe they’re good._

They didn’t know how to react to the approaching figure, so they awkwardly stood still in place as the masked person walked closer, letting the hair that had come loose from the braid obscure most of their face. Now that it was daylight, and their mind was clear, they took note of the figure's attire, consisting of the black mask, a honey mustard hoodie, black gloves, blue jeans, and black shoes. Definitely not suitable for the heat, they were covered head to toe.  
Once the figure, who was much taller than them, was within arm’s length, they held out a backpack they’d had on their back.  
They no longer sensed danger coming from the person in the mask, but they were still wary of them. Tentative hands reached out as well and grasped onto the straps of the backpack, gently pulling it closer to themselves. 

_A gift? After what I did?_  
Confusion kept them rooted to the spot, even as the figure came even closer and reached into the bag they were holding and pulled out a black spiral notebook and a pack of pencils. 

_Oh, they don’t speak either, those are for communicating._  
_Are they like me? Did they wake up here alone too?_

The figure was writing something down on the first page with gloved hands. After a moment they turned the notebook to show the words they had written, the first words they’d ever have addressed to them.

**“What do you remember.”**

The hooded person wrote in bold letters, which they appreciated. Putting their backpack down, they took the offered notebook and wrote their reply in a slanted scrawl.

 _“Nothing, I woke up here a few days ago.”_  
They passed the notebook and pencil back, curious to see what the figure knew.

**“You have been broken by the Operator. You are Sick.”**

They cocked their head, not understanding a single thing about the hooded persons explanation. What was “The Operator”, and how were they “Sick”?  
The figure read their body language and added,  
**“It took your memory, warped your mind. It leaves its Sickness inside.”**

_“So monsters really do exist?”_  
**“Just this one.”**

_Looks like I was right, there really are monsters here. Is that why the woods felt so weird?_  
They caught their train of thought before it derailed into absurdity.

_Or is it all in my head? Maybe this person is feeding into my delusion, and I had a psychotic break. Or maybe something traumatic happened to me and I’m experiencing amnesia, my brain is trying to protect me. Yeah, that makes sense, that's why I woke up disoriented. But still, I have questions._

_“Where are we?”_  
**“Rosswood.”**

_Okay, so we’re in some sort of nature reserve or park._

_“Why am I here?”_  
**“The Operator transports when exposed.”**

_Again with the “Operator”, is that what this person believes messed with me? Maybe we both experienced the same event, and it messed us both up. People react differently to trauma, I have amnesia, and this person is experiencing delusions. Wait, maybe I was attacked, and they perceived it as a monster attacking me, just like how I thought they themselves were a monster because of their mask._

_“Why are you here?”_  
**“Safer than outside.”**

They accepted that answer, even if it made little sense to them. There was probably a reason the hooded person was avoidant of something “outside”.

 _“How long have you been here?”_  
This time the person in the hood hesitated, probably to try and remember how long they’d been in the woods.

**“Years.”**

_Oh._  
The timeline didnt match, unless they’d been living in Rosswood previously. For _years._  
_This person needs help._

Ironic, considering they had been hopelessly lost and dying a day ago. Speaking of, the hooded person had to have somehow given them water, since they didn’t feel like they were dangerously dehydrated. Or hungry for that matter.

They peered through the layer of hair, static, and blurriness to get a better look at the hooded person’s mask. The red eyes and frown were still there-they hadn’t hallucinated that after all-but it seemed much more cartoonish now than threatening.

_“Why?”_

The answer that came was simple.

**“Operator.”**


	4. Recognition

Having had enough talk about monsters in the woods, which they weren’t sure if they truly believed, they decided to ask more personal questions. They were still shaky on their feet, and there was no sense in standing while they “talked", so they sank down to the floor next to the backpack given to them, back against the wall and legs crossed up. 

The figure looked down at them, unmoving until they waved their hand for them to sit as well. The hooded person sat themselves a few feet away, one leg splayed out and the other cocked at the knee. Somehow, they were visibly more relaxed than themselves. They were all tensed and coiled, ready to run at the first sign of trouble.

_Let’s start with the heavy hitters._  
_“Do you know who I am?”_

Despite not being able to see any facial features, they noticed that the figure seemed to be deliberating on what to write in response. They anxiously watched as the person wrote for a few minutes, occasionally erasing a word and replacing it. When the hooded figure finished they handed the notebook back, and looking closely because their vision was still bad, they read the bold letters.

**“Recognized you. We are ToTheArk. Those with the Sickness, searching for the Ark. Three of us, you were the third to join. Found you. Offered the task of working with us. You accepted. Have been with us for a long time.”**

Stories they couldn’t remember reading came to mind. _The Ark? Like the biblical tale?_ The Ark in that story was a huge ship meant to carry the chosen survivors of a God’s wrath, so they could escape death and begin anew. But where did that fit in with the supposed monster?

_When will things start making sense? According to this person, there’s apparently a monster that took my memory, and now I was a part of a cult that did god knows what. It’s all delusion, probably, hopefully, at least, but there might be parts that are true. Maybe someone went after this group that I was a part of, because it's a damn cult, and I got whacked in the head really hard. But what was I doing? Was I performing fucking rituals in the woods or something? Summoning demons with human sacrifices?_

_“Can you prove that we knew each other? Or that I was a part of this ToTheArk group?”_  
**“Did not reveal faces. But recognized eyes. Give me your hand.”**

_My hand? What for?_ But they placed their knees on the floor and reached out with their left hand, curious to see what the hooded person would do. _How’s this gonna prove anything?_

They watched as the hooded person scooted closer and held their bare hand between gloved ones. Without warning, the hooded figure took their thumb and twisted, turning the appendage 180 degrees. They involuntarily let out a noise of surprise, yet no pain followed. Their thumb was completely twisted around, pad facing upward. _What the fuck!_ They didn't even know it was possible to do that!

Gloved hands let go, and their thumb simply reverted to its normal position. The hooded person picked up the notepad and wrote: **“You did not know you had the ability to do that. But I did. How so? Unless it was made known to me beforehand.”**

They could practically feel the smugness emanating from the hooded person.  
_Well damn, I guess that proves it, I was - am?- part of a cult._

_“What did ToTheArk do?”_  
_Please don’t say we killed people, please don't say we killed people, no murder please._

**“We are being led to ToTheArk.”**

_… Alright, that's something. Does that make the Ark a place? Or an object?_  
They had no real reason to hear this strange hooded person out, but they were truly the only lead they had at the moment. That and they were freely giving them information, whether it was true or not was another issue for later. 

_“What is the Ark?”_  
But when they went to hand the notebook and pencil back to the figure, they shook their head no, as if to say they wouldn’t answer that, and handed the supplies back.  
Never mind, how about another topic, the cult stuff can wait.

 _“Can I go home?”_  
They didn’t think the person in the mask was kidnapping them, since they could have woken up before the masked person got back and simply slipped away, but they weren’t about to risk being chased down through unfamiliar woods.

**“What home.”**

_Oh, fuck. I don’t have a home. Did I even have one before? How am I supposed to go back to living a normal life like this? I can’t, I can’t remember anybody or anything about my past, anybody I might’ve known would be a stranger to me._

They were homesick for a place that they weren’t sure existed at all. 

_“Did I have a family? Friends? Anybody to look for me?”_  
They were getting desperate for something to hold onto, some sort of stability. It felt like they were lost at sea, and clawing desperately in search of a lifejacket. 

**“Unknown, for safety.”**

_Well it didn’t work. I have to stop for now, before I cry in front of this person. What about you, what’s your deal?_

_“What’s your name?”_  
**“Don’t have.”**  
_“What should I call you then?”_  
**“Unimportant.”**

They looked at the black mask, with its red frowning face. There wasn’t a way to tell the gender of the hooded person from their face, but if they had to guess based on their shoulders, height, and chest- they’d say male. _Shouldn’t guess though, especially since I’m not exactly option A or B._

 _“Are you a man, woman, or something else like me?”_  
It had been something they’d realized while they had still been lucid in their wanderings- that they were neither a man nor a woman. It came to them as naturally as walking or breathing, so they saw no reason to force themselves to be something they weren’t. Besides, there was much weirder shit happening. 

The figure circled “man”.

_“I’ll call you ‘Frowning Man’.”_  
**“Very original.”**

A strange sound escaped them before they could stifle it, it was sharp, but it didn’t sound pained or angry. _I laughed, that was my first laugh._

_“It was either that or ‘Frowny’.”_  
**“Frowning Man is fine.”**

They laughed again, not stifling their reaction.  
But their smile faltered as they realized, _I don't know where to go from here._

Their whole world so far consisted of the Frowning Man and Rosswood, they knew nothing of the outside. Concepts like societal structure, currency, and technology weren’t completely forgotten, but they had no memories or experiences with them. They had a basic, yet vague understanding in place of what must have been their former knowledge.  
How were they going to get enough money to get supplies or shelter? If they couldn’t, how would they survive on the streets? Or keep themselves safe from other people? They wouldn’t last a day on their own.

But here, in the woods? They would be safe, and they could get answers. 

The Frowning Man had been helpful so far, he’d saved them from dying in the middle of the woods and bandaged their wounds. After they’d tried to _kill_ him. And he seemed to be telling the truth, albeit a bit fantastical, about them. Not that they had any other sources of information, after all. Swallowing the lump in their throat, they made a request.

_“Can I stay with you?”_

One second, two seconds, three seconds quickly turned into too many seconds. They could only sit there, sweating, as the Frowning Man seemed to either be re-reading the words on the page repeatedly or deliberating on his response. Or maybe both. 

_Fuck, I’ve lost it. I must have been hit in the head really damn hard because I just asked a mentally ill homeless man in a fucking mask if I could stay with him. Sure, we knew each other before, but I tried to fucking murder him!_

They were about to reach out for the notebook to take back what they said, to say that they would leave him alone, when the Frowning Man gave a nod. 

_Oh thank fuck._  
They really didn’t know what they would have done if they weren’t allowed to stay.  
_Probably die in the woods or on the streets._

Right then and there they made a promise, to themselves and to the Frowning Man.  
_I’ll make it up to you, I’ll be useful._


	5. Soup for the Soul

With their main concern resolved, they let their curiosity run wild. They wanted to know more about what the Frowning Man was alluding to with the “Sickness” and the “Operator” that he mentioned so much. Since the Frowning Man was still patiently sitting they took the opportunity and ran with it.  
_“What’s the Operator?”_  
**“IMPURITY ROT DECAY.”**  
They felt uneasy from reading the large, bolded words, _that's the thing he says got me_? _Don’t pay too much attention to it, maybe it's still his delusion. Hmm, didn’t he mention there were three members of “ToTheArk”? If I was the third, and he’s either the founder or the second, who’s the other member?_

_“Where is the other member?”_  
**“Not here now.”**  
_“What are they like?”_  
The Frowning Man read the words, looked at them, and back at the page again. _Did I confuse him? Or is he silently judging me? It can’t be that strange of a question to ask._  
**“He is Masked.”**  
_“Same mask as you?”_  
**“No. White skin, black mouth, black eyes.”**  
_“So ToTheArk doesn’t have a dress code?”_

They were grinning, wide and toothy enough that the Frowning Man could probably see it through their hair, and they got the distinct feeling he was disappointedly looking at them. _Oh come on, that was good._

_“Were you the first member?”_  
**“Yes.”**  
_“So the Masked Man is the second, and I’m the third”._  
**“Correct.”**  
_“Have I met him before?”_  
**“Unknown.”**  
_“Is he nice?” _  
**“He will not harm you.”**__

_Well… that’s a good thing. A good trait to have. We all have to start somewhere. I shouldn’t judge, considering where I started._

_“Are there more people like us? Other than the Masked Man?”_  
**“A few.”**  
_“Are they here?”_  
**“No.”**  
_“Are they dangerous?”_  
**“One is.”**  
_Oh man, just what I needed. If the Frowning Man isn’t experiencing delusions, that means there’s a fucking demon monster in these woods that messed with my head, along with a dangerous person who’s also “Sick”. I can’t let myself freak out until I see it with my own eyes though… even though I can’t see shit._

___“Is there anything else I need to know?”_  
**“Look in the bag, yours.”** _ _

__Placing the notebook next to them and picking up the backpack, they zipped it open to peer inside. The bag itself was an old brown thing, but sturdy. They rummaged through the bag, excited at receiving gifts. There was a change of clothes, the pack of pencils, a toothbrush in its packaging, a roll of gauze, and a white cloth mask that would cover their mouth and nose, leaving their eyes out. On top of the mask was a thick black marker, which they assumed was for personalizing it._ _

They hastily pulled the loops on the mask over their ears, sighing in relief at having their face covered- even if only partially. It felt like sitting in the shade after being in the sun for a long time. _How did he know I need to cover my face?_ Picking up the pencil and notebook once more, they scribbled out their question. 

___“How did you know I needed this?”_  
**“We are both Sick, similar symptoms.”** _ _

_So he’s like me, he doesn’t have a name and wears something to cover his face. This must be the Sickness he was talking about. That’s probably why he is covered head to toe, even in this heat. He’s much sicker than me._

They caught themselves.  
_No, I can’t let myself go down that path, it's not real. ToTheArk could’ve just been a group of people with the same mental disorders. That's why the Frowning Man is clearly disturbed and living away from other people. Yeah, that makes sense. Because monsters aren't real._

_“Thank you very much.”_  
**“Will bring more.”**  
They underlined their previous message, _“ Thank you”_

__Sensing that their conversation was done, the Frowning Man stood up and walked into the only room, the one they’d woken up in, and crouched in front of his black backpack. Leaning to peek from around the doorframe, they watched as the Frowning Man checked inside his bag. Appearing satisfied with what he found, he carried the whole thing over to where they sat._ _

__Curiosity piqued, they leaned forward to see what he had brought. The Frowning Man then pulled out a water bottle and a can of soup, setting them on the ground and nudging the items towards them. Without asking for permission, they snatched the water bottle and, as much as it pained them, drank slowly. They knew that if they were to chug it like they wanted to they’d only throw it back up. They painstakingly drank most of the bottle, wiping their mouth with the back of their hand when they were done._ _

Setting the bottle back down and picking up the notebook and pencil, they retraced their words: _ **“ Thank you.”**_ _I would have died in that tower if he hadn’t found me._ Something in their chest was hot, but not like before, it didn’t hurt. _I swear I’ll make it up to you, I’ll be useful._

__They didn’t have a purpose outside of these woods, but here? Here they had an identity to find, and a promise to fulfill. The idea of starting their life anew surrounded by strangers, in an unfamiliar place, almost made them nauseous. However brief, they had become accustomed to the Frowning Man, the building, and the woods surrounding them all._ _

__They looked up at the Frowning Man.  
He pulled a knife out of the pocket of his jeans. _ _

__Their heart _dropped_ to their stomach, muscles tightening as they violently flinched backward, their spine hitting the wall. _ _

__Pausing at their reaction, the Frowning Man cocked his head to the side, as if confused or surprised. He began to slowly reach out, and they pushed themselves into the wall as much as they could._ _

_Don't, don’t, knife, no weapon, run? Can’t run! Too close! Shit!_

But he only took the can of soup from the ground and began to open it using the knife 

_Oh._ They relaxed, embarrassed that they had misconstrued his intentions. After a minute of cutting away at the lid, the Frowning Man carefully handed the can of soup back to them. Shaky hands cautiously took the can and sipped, since there were no utensils. 

_My first meal, good ol’ chicken noodle soup._ It was lukewarm, but it was the best thing they’d ever tasted. Not that there was much competition though. Seeing that they were eating, the Frowning Man took his bag and put it back in the corner of the bedroom, then turned and laid himself down on the mattress. 

_He’s probably tired from getting me the backpack and supplies, but how can he just relax around me? I attacked him!_  
Guilt wrapped their heart, its thorns digging into soft flesh. It only tightened as they realized that the water and food they were given had come out of the Frowning Man’s bag. It was his own supplies that he had given to them, not something he’d picked up from when he was out. But they still needed the food, they hadn’t eaten since they had awoken and probably before that too. Their ribs were visible on the day they woke up, after all. _What in the world have I gone through before this? Some strange sickness, being part of a secret group, was I ever normal? Was this inevitable?_

Fragmented thoughts flitted through their mind a mile a minute as they slowly sipped the soup, careful not to eat too fast lest they throw it back up immediately. Once they ate about half they carefully got up, since their limp made them unsteady, and brought the can and notebook to the Frowning Man, who had been laying still on the mattress.  
_Is he asleep?_ They couldn’t tell if he was awake, but the only movement from the Frowning Man was the steady rise and fall of his chest.  
_Well, he’s not dead._ They crouched down next to his sleeping form, and remembering the knife in his pocket, cautiously reached out to tap his shoulder. The split-second their hand touched him he jerked awake, his head twisting toward them, hands coming up. 

They instinctively put their hands up and showed their palms, which they guessed was supposed to reassure the Frowning Man that they weren’t going to attack him. 

The Frowning Man relaxed once he realized it was just them, laying his head back down. _I guess I don’t look very intimidating since I’m shorter and smaller than him._ They offered the half can of soup to him, intent on sharing it, it was his food after all, but he only waved them off, turning to face the wall to presumably fall back asleep. 

But they remained crouched next to the mattress.  
_I must've been raised with manners, goddamnit. You’re not supposed to just take people’s stuff and not share some with them._

____

____

_The Frowning Man must have noticed that they hadn’t left, as he sat up, taking the notebook from where they had placed it on the ground. They sat on the end of the mattress, as it was more comfortable than crouching due to their ankle._

**“Eat. Nutrition is vital.”**  
_“It was in your bag.”_  
**“Acquire more later.”**  
_“You need to eat too.”_  
**“ Found you almost dead.”**  
_“But I feel better now.”_  
**“Because that was two days ago.”**

_What? That wasn’t yesterday? Just how long was I out for?_ They looked at the empty water bottles around the mattress, and the empty cans of food they previously hadn't spotted. 

_“I don’t remember drinking or eating here before.”_  
**“You had a fever. Delirium.”**

__They put a hand to their own forehead, and only then did they notice a small patch of bandaging that had come loose revealed clean skin, whereas before it had been grimy and bloody. They lifted their shirt, examining the bandaging on their torso for a moment before lifting a small piece to peer inside. The skin was also clean._ _

The Frowning Man noticed their expression.  
**“Necessary to prevent infections.”**

They weren’t embarrassed that he’d cleaned them, but they were ashamed that they couldn’t have done it themselves.  
_"Understandable"_  
**“Did see how thin you are though. So eat.”**

__

__

__With that final message, he gave them the notebook and pencil, then laid back down. Seeing as the Frowning Man was clearly done with the conversation, they took the can of soup to the main room to eat, placing the notebook and pencil back into their backpack._ _

__They noticed that the windowsills were big enough to sit on, and choosing the most glass-free window, they picked up a small wooden plank and _smashed_. They might’ve been a bit too loud, as they felt that the Frowning Man's eyes were on them. Turning to see a black and yellow head poking out from the door frame, they could practically read his mind, “ **What the absolute _fuck_ are you doing.**”_ _

To show why they were causing such a ruckus, they cleared the remaining shards of glass and pointedly sat on the now glass-free windowsill holding the can of soup with their pinky out. They could feel their mouth stretching in a toothy smile. _I don’t know what the pinky is supposed to mean but something tells me that it’s fancy._

____

____

The Frowning Man only shook his head and disappeared from their view, followed by the _fwump_ of him hitting the mattress. _Oops._ They’d take care to be quiet, since they’d woken him up twice now in the span of five minutes. 

____

____

__The sun was starting to set, having passed the highest point in the sky. It was warm, but unlike the days that they had been wandering it wasn’t unbearable. They slipped their mask down, feeling the sun on their face. The weaker light didn’t hurt their eyes like the midday sun._ _

They sipped their soup, listening to the leaves rustling and the birds chirping outside. Their hearing was unimpeded, unlike their vision, except for the few times they'd been ringing. _Tinnitus_ , they remembered the word for the phenomenon. They didn’t know why they saw static in their vision though, nor did they have a name for it. But the blue sky still looked beautiful, static and all. _This is my favorite color._ They looked down, _and soup is my favorite food._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soup is the superior food


	6. Bandages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm

Finishing their soup and slipping their mask back up, they placed the now empty can on the windowsill and quietly stepped toward the backpack given to them. They felt energized after the food and rest, _I’ve got soup running in my veins._ They were fairly sure that wasn’t how digestion or blood functioned, but they were willing to ignore logic in favor of their belief in the healing properties of soup. 

It was hard to silently step anywhere, as the floor was covered with debris from both the woods and the building itself. Despite their wild appearance, they found that they couldn't stand being dirty or being in unkempt places. The state the building was in was making it rather apparent. That and this could be a way to be useful, to pay back what they owed to the Frowning Man. 

Deliberating on how to clear the floor of debris, they spotted a longer wooden plank than the one they’d previously used. _Aha!_  
It didn’t seem too heavy, and they couldn’t be that weak after two days of rest. They lifted the plank horizontally, then lowered it to the center of the floor, crouching so they could reach it. They then pushed, creating a makeshift-mini-snow plow to clear the debris away. 

_I'm a goddamn genius._  
A shard of glass was stuck on the plank where they wanted to put their hand, so they tugged on it between two fingers. They must have underestimated how deep it had been lodged into the wood, as their fingers slipped, cutting the bottom of their left palm. It was thankfully shallow, yet it bled profusely, streaming red down their palm. The glass was still stuck in the wood.  
 _… goddamn stupid, is what I am._

A few pushes of the plank and they had already begun to tire, stopping frequently to rest. They got about a quarter done before they stopped, their body trembling, hands hurting, and ankle throbbing. Sitting themselves down on the now-cleared ground, they wiped the sweat off their face. They'd taken their mask off and stuffed it into the pocket of their jeans prior to beginning, as the only other person near them was unconscious. 

They put their head in their hands, exhausted. _Still not recovered, huh?_ Leaning back against a wall in the now-cleared section, they decided they were done for the day. Their head lolled to the side, looking over to their backpack. Their eyes widened as they were struck with inspiration. 

_He has a frown for his mask, should I have a smile? I like to smile, I like to laugh._ They reached for the pencil and notebook and turned to the next clean page, thinking up basic designs since they didn’t know if they could draw anything too complex. They wanted to make it uniquely theirs though, it was a need that they had no explanation for. _Why not go with it?_

The first sketch was a simple one lined smile: :)  
 _No, no it’s too… docile. I need to look more threatening. Wait, why do I want to look threatening?_ They knew that they were physically non-threatening, so they figured that they’d have to make it up somehow. They felt their own mouth, the skin was unassuming and probably looked normal. Using their tongue, they ran it over their upper set of teeth, noticing that one of their front teeth along with one to the side was slightly chipped, which made them sharper to the touch. It must have been right before they had woken up for the first time, as the sharpness didn’t feel like it had been dulled through use at all. 

_Sharp teeth, like a predator, not prey._   
Inspired, they sketched out several variations of jagged, sharp, smiling mouths. That way, it would include who they were and be somewhat threatening. 

While they brainstormed different designs, their hand began to compulsively twirl and flip the pencil in between their fingers. Fascinated, since they didn’t recall learning that skill, they put the pencil in their other hand. Sure enough, their muscle memory picked up on it.

_I didn’t know I could do cool stuff like that. What else is hidden from me?_  
They were curious about themselves physically, other than the brief once-over they had given themselves soon after they’d woken up for the first time, they didn’t know much about their own body. Hell, even the Frowning Man knew more, since he’d been the one to clean and bandage them, and he’d even known that their finger joint was abnormal. _What type of code even is that? I must’ve been the one to show him that before, but was it specifically for recognition, or did I just show him because I thought it was cool?_

They stopped messing with the pencil to hold their left thumb between their fingers, twisting it slowly so as to not aggravate their bruises, just like they’d seen the Frowning Man do so earlier. And just like earlier, their thumb twisted half-way around, the pad facing them. _This is actually pretty cool, I probably showed him, and he used this because who would try breaking their own fingers after losing their memory?_

Their indecisive ass couldn’t pick just one, so by the time the sun truly had begun to sink, they had narrowed down their choices to two designs. _I can hold out another day, I don’t have to choose right now._ As they sat there, deliberating, they heard the Frowning Man shift on the mattress as he began to stir awake. 

_Is he nocturnal? Or is it just from his journey to get supplies today?_ They figured that Rosswood was enormous, probably spanning tens of miles if not more. It had been three whole days of wandering, and although they had found a trail at some point, they’d been too frightened by something ahead of it to follow the trail to wherever it had led. Looking back, it had to have been their own delusion, not some monster that the Frowning Man had told them about.

They stayed still on the ground, notebook in their lap, fingers twirling the pencil. It was rather dull from all the use, so when the Frowning Man rose from the mattress and walked over to them, they turned the page and wrote: _“Can I have your knife for a bit?”_

They could practically feel an eyebrow being raised at them. If the Frowning Man had one. _There has to be an actual face behind that mask, right?_

_“I need to sharpen this pencil.”_ He seemed satisfied with their answer, pulling out the pocket knife and handing it to them by the hilt. 

_That easy? I could kill you, I could lunge at you and drive this into your throat. Your sunshine colored sweatshirt would turn blood-moon red. You’d lay there, choking on air while trying to stop the bleeding, but it would just spill past your fingers. Your body would rot here._

_Wait, no, why am I thinking that? I can’t kill him, why would I kill him?_ But they’d been staring down at the knife. _No, I wouldn’t do that. Not to someone who doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve it._

Their shoulders twitched, left-right-left, as if trying to physically shake off their unwanted thoughts. Focusing on the task at hand, they began to sharpen the pencil with little cuts. Shuffling footsteps had them looking up at the sight of the Frowning Man walking around going from window to window, as if on the lookout for something. Or someone.

Before they could try and join him- they were innately curious it seemed- their knife slipped from their hand. A new cut was added to their ever-growing collection, this time on the left side of their palm, on their left hand. _Dumbass!_ A sharp hiss left their mouth as they dropped the now bloody knife on the ground, their right hand instinctively gripping their left to put pressure on the cut. _Ironic._

The Frowning Man whipped his head at the sound, briskly walking over to them and crouching down. He tapped their right hand to get them to show the damage, which they reluctantly let go of. Taking their bloody hand in his, he examined the wound. 

They let it happen, even though they’d technically met him yesterday, he had plenty of opportunities to kill them, but had gone out of his way to take care of them. _That and he knows how to wrap a wound, which is something that I might’ve known before but forgot how to do._

The Frowning Man reached over to where their bag was, tugging it closer before pulling out the roll of gauze. Before wrapping their hand, he used two fingers to point at their eyes then pointed at their hand, meaning; “ **Watch.** ” They nodded in understanding, watching intently as he carefully yet firmly wrapped their knuckles with gauze before moving onto their palm and fingers. 

_He must have ran out of bandages, that's why my hands weren’t wrapped before._ They felt the strong compulsion to crack their joints in their right hand, and gave in, focusing on the sensation of how their wrist somehow popped out of its socket slightly, and how their fingers could pop and bend in odd angles. The strangeness of the sensation in their right hand coupled with their attention on how the Frowning Man wrapped their hand kept the pain bearable. 

They huffed- another laugh- because _how did I spend three days with all these injuries and not die? Yeah, adrenaline and determination help, and I stopped to rest constantly, but goddamn._

They smiled at their extensive knowledge of swear words. _Too bad I don’t speak, I could have cursed that damn raccoon out. Mmm, or maybe not, they probably were just pissed that I tried to sleep in their tree. But still, the fall really fuckin’ hurt._

When the Frowning Man finished with their hands, he carefully let go and wrote:  
 **“How did you survive alone.”**  
They let out a bark-like laugh.  
 _“Dumb luck.”_ Their hands were a bit stiff from the bandaging, making their handwriting wonky.  
The Frowning Man didn't seem very impressed.  
 **“Use caution.”**  
 _“I will.”_ But they knew they’d most likely fuck up again, since their drive came from curiosity, which often led to them getting hurt one way or another. _Like wondering if I could sleep in a tree, then being kicked out by it’s inhabitant._

Looking up into the Frowning Man’s cloth mask, they noticed something strange; _It’s getting darker by the minute and he’s wearing that mask, how is he able to see anything?_

_“How can you see out of your mask?”_   
**“I do not.”**

_What the hell? Is he some sort of bat, using echolocation?_  
He must have somehow seen the confusion in their eyes, as he added; **“That was a joke.”**

That got another bark-laugh out of them.  
Writing quickly, before all the sunlight disappeared, they asked one last question. It had been on their mind since he had offered his hand to them after they’d fought.   
_“Why are you helping me?”_

The Frowning Man took the pencil but didn’t immediately write a response, instead he paused, as if he didn’t know how to put it in words.  
 **“You are Sick. And you assisted me.”**

_What? I helped him? When??_  
But with that, he put the notebook and pencil back into their backpack and slung it over one shoulder. He then pulled them to their feet by their elbow, led them to the bedroom, and pointed at the closet door while handing their backpack back over to them. _He’s giving me space to change into the clean clothes._

Stepping into the closet, they realized it was too dark to see, despite the window inside. Right before they were about to turn around and change somewhere more illuminated, they felt the Frowning Man take their uninjured hand and press something into it. They looked down to see a flashlight in their right hand. _Problem solved._

Closing the closet door behind them, they turned on the flashlight and placed it light up on the floor so they could see. Taking out the clothes the Frowning Man had brought back for them, they looked them over. They consisted of a pair of dark jeans that looked to be more or less their size, and a long, baggy dark grey t-shirt that definitely wasn’t their size. They weren’t bought in a store, that much was apparent, but they didn’t look too worn out or frayed.

They shucked off their dirty clothes, folding them and sliding them into their backpack. _I’ll use my original outfit as my day-clothes, and these clean ones as my night-clothes. Except for the pants, I have learned that I don’t like sleeping in jeans._ They pulled on the t-shirt, content with sleeping in only that since it went past their bottom. _I’m not going to sleep in pants if I can help it._

Flashlight in their uninjured hand and backpack slung over their shoulder, they opened the closet door. The Frowning Man was sitting on the edge of the mattress, and upon seeing them with nothing but the shirt, he sharply turned his head away. 

_Ah shit, I might be making him uncomfortable… but seriously, fuck sleeping in jeans. At least I’m not the one being embarrassed this time._

Plopping their backpack down next to the Frowning Mans bag, they were grateful that the floor of the bedroom was cleared of debris. At least the Frowning Man seemed to have some sense of cleanliness. Despite living in an abandoned house in the middle of the woods, his clothes didn't seem to reflect that, the mustard yellow of his hoodie was unblemished and had no stains.

Turning around to face the mattress, they spotted a faded and worn blanket that hadn’t been there before. They sat on the mattress, shuffling to the corner where two walls met, not knowing how to go about sleeping on the tiny mattress with someone else. Before they could try and find the notebook the Frowning Man got up and moved to sit against the doorframe so that he could see both entrances and most of the windows from inside the bedroom. _Smart._

Glad that they didn’t have to awkwardly figure out how to sleep in the same mattress as him, they situated themselves. It felt like luxury compared to sleeping on the ground or against a tree.

_When was the last time I slept like this? Even with a maybe-monster lurking around, masked almost-stranger feet away, I feel safe._

They instinctively curled up their legs as they pulled the old blanket over them, resting their head on the pillow. Turning so that they were facing the woods, they could hear the crickets chirping outside and the wind rustling the branches. Sleep easily took them under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Years, here's an early chapter. Thank you for reading, this is my first time ever writing something that is not for schoolwork. Feel free to leave constructive criticism, I look forward to improving my writing.


	7. Surviving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the perspective of the Frowning Man, if he wasn't as Fucked Up.

The name that they had given him, “Frowning Man”, fit the description in more ways than one. It was not the same name as before, but it was still fitting, just as the last one had been. He wasn’t one to get upset, not anymore anyway, but the sight of them, blissfully ignorant to the situation they were in- well, he was frowning.

It had been etched into his face ever since he had found them delirious from a combination of dehydration, malnutrition, and the Sickness. 

Except for the brief moments of relief, such as when he’d come back to find them up and walking, he had been running on fear. 

_Fear._ Of all the emotions they had brought back to him, fear was new. Until he had found them in the tower, he had not felt fear in a very long time. Even his encounters with the Operator did not strike him with horror as they once had long ago. 

But the sight of their haunted eyes- those peculiar yet familiar eyes- he was momentarily stunned, stuck in place as he felt _scared._

He was not scared of them, it was hard to be scared of them really, but rather he was scared _for_ them. Horrified at what must have happened to them, of what he had inadvertently caused. And so he had literally and figuratively had been running on pure terror. It was not hard to subdue them in their weakened state, or to carry their limp body while sprinting through Rosswood, _terrified_ that the Operator would come and whisk them away, lured out by their pain and suffering. 

It was a long two days after that, of making sure they did not die in his hands. Education in nursing proved to be useful yet again, as they had developed a fever and needed bandaging.  
The two days were tense, he did not sleep. But neither did his patient, it seemed, as they would writhe and make pained noises so often that he wondered if they were getting any rest at all. There was not much he could do beyond cleaning and bandaging their wounds, and making sure they drank and ate. 

That had been a challenge in itself, getting them to drink water and eat food. He’d try to sit them upright, but they remained limp and would just slump over. Like a corpse. Eventually, he had resorted to sitting behind them, their meager weight supported by his front, and fitting his arms underneath theirs so that they wouldn’t choke on the water or food. Thankfully, they’d accept whatever he tried to give them.

He only left once, to get more supplies when they had briefly awoken in the early morning of the third day. Their fever must have broken because they had opened their eyes, looked at him, and _laughed_. Not in a cold or mocking way, but a genuine barrage of wild, raspy laughter. It was not the same as before, and he did not know whether it was due to the painful bruising all around their throat or the Infection. He had simply stared at them, dumbfounded, as they wheezed at seemingly nothing. Then it had hit him, _they think my mask looks funny._ They had fallen back asleep soon after, and unlike the previous two days, slept soundly. Did they even know that existence was not always so painful? That the pain they felt constantly would eventually either fade, or they would 

That had been another moment of relief, of hearing the familiar laughter again. It was when he knew they would be fine. He had left almost immediately, taking as many shortcuts as he could, accustomed to the abrupt and off-kilter changes in terrain as he ran. After reaching a store, his nimble gloved fingers took care of the rest. It wasn’t as if living in the woods paid well.

But beyond making sure they weren’t dying, he for once did not know what his next step would be. He was utterly lost in what to do, for the first time in years. Everything had gone to shit. 

He did not know the Infection could be so subtle, that their meetings would have eventually contaminated them. The telltale signs of the Sickness had not been apparent, not even the persistent cough that every Infected seemed to have had been present. But how could he have not noticed? He had been vigilant in his observations.

But they were Taken either way, and it was on him. Just as it was Alex’s fault he had been Taken, it was his turn to be at fault for the Taking of someone else. His fists tightened, gloved hands coming up to press into his hooded head. **I refuse to be like the murderer.** He could feel a headache coming on.

For the first time in years- it seemed to be a recurring theme- he was kicking himself for being so _thoughtless_. He did not plan for them. Not their initial meeting, not their _insistence_ to interact with him, not their recruitment, not them being Taken, not them at all. Least of all did he plan for his own need for human contact, his own _weakness._

He would scream if he could. If he were somehow even weaker, he would.

Everything about them was the opposite of him. Where he frowned, they smiled. When he had been cold and distant, they had been warm and inviting. While he was silent, they laughed. It was how they somehow wormed their way into his life. And he let them. He _let_ them. Look where that landed them. In Rosswood, with no memory, sleeping on an old mattress in an abandoned house.

 **It is my fault.** He loathed to admit it, but everything that had happened- and will happen- to them could be traced back to him. They could not have known he was Sick, that he would Infect them. He did not divulge everything when recruiting them. A mistake. 

But deep inside he knew that he’d do it again. He’d succumb to interacting with them, to forming a friendship of sorts with them all over again. He had been alone, for so, so long. He was a selfish creature. 

That was why he kept them here, after all. It had been awfully convenient that they had actually wanted- had even asked to stay. **Still too trusting, too faithful in others.** He knew that if he let them go, they’d only suffer in the outside world. With no memory and the Sickness, they would suffer just as he did. He did not want that for them. He was selfish in every sense, he took what he wanted and gave nothing back. He would not give them back to the Operator.

He looked to where they slept, curled up and comfortable, and made a promise of his own.  
**I will not let it take you again.**

He had dug their grave by letting them into his life, but he would correct it. Just as he always did, he would simply make plans, albeit different ones. Ones that included the now Infected third member. Although he had hoped they would have stayed Uninfected, working on the outside, he could not change what was done. They could not know of their previous life, of what he had done to them, it would only hurt them. It would only get in the way of his plans. 

Letting his head hit the doorframe, he sighed, quietly as to not wake up his new partner- _partner._ Despite everything, he liked that term. **Partner, just as the Masked Man is my partner.**

The Masked Man was a strange creature that was practically made as a defense against the Operator. And exactly what he needed. The little time he had with the Masked Man was one of the few things that he valued. They communicated in a way that seldom needed words, spoken or written. He was selfish with him too, he brought the Masked Man out when he needed him, and if it were up to him he wouldn’t give him back. 

Smiling- something rather rare- he pictured himself, the Masked Man, and their new addition together, operating as one cohesive unit. Three words, three members, three working as one to be led to the Ark. Just as it should be. 

He just needs to prove, to convince them that the Sickness and Operator are real and dangerous. Knowing full well their skepticism on the subject, he also knew that it was only a matter of time until something happened to them that could not be rationally explained. Then they would join him again. Then they would help him be led to the Ark. 

But of course, there would be obstacles. Obstacles named Alex Kralie.  
And the occasional Jay, along with the ever-present roadblock called Tim.

With Alex roping Jay into working with him, he would have to act fast before Alex deemed Jay another loose end. He’d already previously arranged it so that the Masked Man would be arriving any day now. It also coincided as to why he had a decently sized stash of pills. 

Looking back to the sleeping form, he thought about what they had written to him, of what he had gathered about them so far. **Habits remain, the self-injury, the twitching of muscles and cracking of bones. The sharing of resources is a trait they retained. They seem open to meeting the Masked Man. Good to know that they are still curious by nature, that will work in my favor. Perhaps they are not completely broken, what is left can be salvaged to create something new.**

He, on the other hand, had been torn from limb to limb. Things that he would never get back had been taken, and things he never wanted were given to him. Forced upon him, making him something else entirely from what he had once been. He felt… unsettled at the thought of his newfound partner becoming just as warped as he was. **Protect the pieces.**

If he failed, if the Operator tortured them as it had tortured him, they would not come out the same. They were not the same now, with their memory corrupted. They had been Taken completely, not split in pieces as the Masked Man was. Yet they laughed, something he had not been able to do even after the first time he’d been Taken.

**The first is a shell, the second is split, and the third…**

He could just barely hear their breathing over the sounds of crickets and nighttime wildlife. But they weren’t just alive, the core of who they were seemed to be mostly intact. He did not think it was possible to be so well preserved after being Taken. Yet there they had been, wide-eyed and painfully _human._ With their jokes and laughter, and the curiosity that had driven them to interact with him in the first place was still right there. Still breathing.

**... the third is surviving.**

But the lost memory was just the first step, next it would start twisting them from the inside. Their mind, their limbs, everything. There would be things, changes in them, that were inevitable. Things that even he could not prevent. But he would keep them from being Taken, he could keep them mostly pieced together.

It had been nothing short of another miracle that they had somehow chipped away at something cold and hard in him. It had taken years, but whatever they had let loose in him was what he was going to need in order to keep them alive. His previous apathy would not have aided in that.  
Inconvenient at times, yes, as it made him feel almost human with the emotions such as fear that it came with. Things he thought he had lost, yet somehow found again

He could not match a date to it, but at some point, he began to _care_. In the years he’d come to know them, he cared. Not just for them, but for the Masked Man as well. It bled into his life, staining everything, but not ruining it. 

He had only realized how deep it ran until he had been using a damp cloth to clean their bloodied face to reveal bruises. Bruises that were not from him, they had to have been a few days old. Their knuckles, ribs, and throat told the same story. Purple, almost black in some places, coupled with scrapes and gashed all over their skin. 

There had been a struggle, but not with just the Operator. He had become enraged, realizing that not only had they been Taken, but they had been _fed to it._

That _rat bastard_ had gone after them, he had fed them to the Operator because he did not have the _goddamn_ brains to find the other two members of ToTheArk. So he had gone for the Third, who had not even known that they were being hunted, by a human or otherwise. They had been unprotected, vulnerable. 

He’d become so overwhelmed with anger that he had to step away from their unconscious body, hands shaking with rage. One of the far entrances doors had been practically off its hinges, so he put it out of its misery by kicking and hitting it until it crashed down to the ground. 

But when the rage had finally dissipated, leaving his knuckles sore, there was an agonizing feeling leftover in his chest. He was worried. So, so very worried because they could have so easily been killed. Either by the Krailie Fucker, or by the Operator. The fact that they were in his shelter, alive, was making him believe in miracles of all things. He still glanced over to them often, as if they were going to be snatched away at any moment.

He did not know why he was so worried now though, his ally would be coming soon and the Third was safe. If everything went according to his previous plans he had about a month with the Masked Man, where they could map out their next course of action. Their goal was simple enough; kill Alex Krailie.

But there was a small hitch. He had proved that they had known each other before, but there was still more they needed to understand. How was he not only going to show proof to his new partner that what he spoke of was real, but also convince them to aid him in his goal? 

Surely it would be difficult to have someone go from “no murder” to “yes murder” in a short span of time, especially since they had no prior memories of him. **In their eyes I am a homeless, mentally ill man who lives in the woods… Well, I am those things, but this is different. Special circumstances. Still, I must convince them somehow.**

The laptops and computers he’d been using were the property of the library, and even though he wasn’t above stealing he had no way to charge them out here. The next best thing was his camera, but he could not show anything substantial. Looks like he would have to demonstrate the tricks he’d picked up while living in Rosswood. 

Looking out the window and into the pitch-black night, then to their still-sleeping shape under the blanket, he decided that he’d do it first thing in the morning. He’d gotten enough sleep- despite their interruptions- and now it was their turn. 

From where he sat he could see almost all the windows and entrances, silently sitting guard as they slept. **I will make sure that it will not take you again.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obsession - Joywave


	8. Operator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which shit goes down

They dreamt of their first moments, of trees reaching down for them as they laid on the ground. But the branches were moving, advancing toward them with white, long fingers that were attached to bleached-white hands. They couldn’t move, they could only stare in silent terror as the fingers came towards them. 

The instant a cold hand touched their face they flinched awake, their hands coming up to their masked face to bat away the nightmarish hands. But when they opened their eyes and saw the Frowning Man sitting at the doorway, they instantly felt relief. He’d been slightly startled by their sudden movements, his head snapping in their direction. _It was just a nightmare, it’s not real._

But the danger was still present, they realized with dread that there was still something off. It felt much more intense than the times they thought they’d been chased through the woods. Something was coming for them, it surrounded them and it was _close_. 

Their skin buzzed and prickled with it as if the air around them had turned to static. They had to go, they had to go _now._ The Frowning Man’s head cocked in confusion as they scrambled to get their pants and shoes on. 

_I have to warn him, we have to go, there’s something coming, it’s coming for us._

Their hands shook as they fumbled to get dressed, jamming their socks and shoes on their feet because they needed to _run_. Finished, they dropped in a crouch in front of the Frowning Man, tugging his hoodie upwards frantically. 

The Frowning Man quickly understood, and although he hadn’t heard anything for hours, he quietly snuck to one of the windows and peered out into the darkness outside. He silently moved from window to window until he reached the last one by the far entrance. 

They stuck close to the Frowning Man, practically molding into his shadow as they waited for something awful to happen. The need to run, to bolt away into the woods was strong, but their reasoning was stronger. 

Whatever it was that had them panicking was outside, they couldn’t just run off into dark, unfamiliar woods where it waited for them. They stared at the dark void outside, trying to adjust their eyes to the pitch-black night.

Silence. Nothing moved.  
Even the crickets had shushed. But the danger was suffocating them, making their blood icy.

The Frowning Man turned back to face them, having seen nothing outside. They pressed themselves next to him to look out the window, certain that something was right there. It had to be, it felt so close and so nauseating that they could feel the sensation in the back of their throat. 

Scanning the woods outside, they spotted a tree that looked out of place. It was somehow darker than the night around it, and the static in their vision seemed condensed on that spot. So they squinted and trailed their eyes to the top of the tree, trying to figure out what was wrong with it.

Instantly they became blinded by a burst of static, but they had managed to catch a glimpse of something. Something that made them cry out in fear and shock.

It had a head. The tree had a faceless, white head. _A monster._

The usual static in their vision had almost completely blinded them, leaving nothing but vague shapes and shadows visible. They could just make out the _impossibly tall_ silhouette of the monster looming outside. It was closer than before. _It’s here it’s here it’s here it’s here it’s here it’s here, oh fuck oh fuck oh god oh shit!_ Their hearing had gone out, replaced by ringing and distorted static. 

They scrambled to back away from the window, tripping themselves up and landing awkwardly on their ankle, sending sparks of pain up their leg. 

Hands hauled them to their feet and dragged them away, they twisted around in an attempt to dislodge themselves, panicked at having something trying to take them away into the dark.

Their head was overloaded with the _danger_ surrounding them, it was in the air they breathed, it stained the walls and floors, it was _inside_ their lungs and head.

The hands let them go after some distance, and they stumbled, disoriented. They were lost in the sea of static and fear in every direction. Before they could fall again they felt the hands pull them, and heard a door slamming shut over the ringing in their ears. 

The static had wormed its way into their mind, they couldn’t think clearly anymore. Up was down and sideways was every way and they were lost in the middle of it all.

They were pulled down to the floor, something pinning their arms to their sides yet their head was kept from hitting the ground. Hands flailed out, trying to keep whatever was attacking them at bay. Their sharp, jagged nails sunk into something soft, but the thing just shook their hands off.

They felt like _prey._  
 _Hurt hurt it’s going to hurt me it’s going to hurt I have to hurt it before I’m hurt before it hurts me_

Growling in frustration, they tried again, trying to tear past whatever it was that kept their nails from sinking into skin. They managed to pull something off- cloth?- and struck out with a closed fist. The impact made their already bruised knuckles burn with pain, but they felt the thing move back from their hit. 

Before they could manage to get up they were pinned to the floor, their spine pressing painfully into the ground. The thing shifted its weight onto their upper arms to keep them down on their back, they couldn’t move their arms. It yanked their mask down and they instinctively tried to bite it, teeth bared.

 _I’m trapped!_ Sheer icy terror shot through them as they let out a frightened, animalistic cry. 

The thing on top of them used the second that their mouth was open to shove something small and smooth inside. They reflexively tried to spit whatever it was out but the thing forcefully kept their mouth shut, and they had no choice but to choke the object down. They gagged at the obtrusion, their head feeling like it was splitting open. Their legs kicked out in a desperate attempt to get free, only meeting air as the thing kept its weight on their arms and torso. 

The thing on top of them held their face, moving it from side to side, then got off. The weight was gone. Using the window of opportunity, they scrambled to get to their feet, but a sharp pain in their right leg had them back on the ground. They couldn’t run. Desperate to put some distance between themselves and their attacker, they kicked out using their left leg until their back hit a wall. 

Disoriented and in pain, they tried to ready themselves for the next attack. They still couldn’t see or hear over the static, and fear had their chest tightened so much that they could scarcely breathe. Something was trickling out of their nose, blood by the taste of it. Something else was dribbling down their face, and they felt their cheek, trailing their hand upwards to locate the source. Whatever liquid it was, it was coming from their eyes. They could do nothing but sit and wait for the next attack, static, ringing, and the scent and taste of blood overwhelming them.

When their vision started to darken, they welcomed it. 

When they woke up it was dark, but the slight moonlight shining through the broken window revealed that they were in the closet with the Frowning Man, who was quietly sitting in the opposite corner from them. Legs bent, gloved hands on his knees. Observing.

Relief soothed the unexplained pain in their chest upon seeing him, not questioning why they were both in the closet in the middle of the night, or why they smelled blood and tasted blood. 

Their head felt hollow, as if all their thoughts had been pushed out to make room for something else.

What was left was instinct, and so they weakly crawled to the opposite side of the closet where the Frowning Man was sitting, seeking comfort. They laid their head against him, hands coming up to hold the fabric of his hoodie as if he’d disappear. They could sleep forever like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can ya hear it, lads? the co-dependency forming?


	9. Viciously

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frowning Man's perspective of the same night

He knew that if they hid, _It_ wouldn’t go away. 

But he had to try, he had to hide because he could not run away.  
Not with the Third in their current condition. 

The promise he made was immediately tested- it had only been a few hours. The Third had suddenly awoken and dressed in a panic, leaving him confused as to why. 

There had been no signs of danger, so he had watched them from his spot. It was only when they tugged at his hoodie did he get the message. 

Their wide, fearful eyes spoke for them.

**Something is wrong.**

He got up to check each window, making sure nobody- or nothing- was outside before moving to the next one. But he knew the Operator sometimes did not reveal itself to the unaided eye. 

Either way, he checked, mostly for the Thirds benefit, who had stuck right behind him. He could practically feel their fear- yet they did not run off. Smarter than the Cameraman.

In the end, he’d been right. The Operator only revealed itself to the Third, who’s strangled yelp alerted him to its presence. 

They’d stumbled- he did not miss the way their ankle was further injured- and he lunged forward, grabbing their upper arms and dragging them towards the room. 

He made a plan, he did not panic. He could not afford to. 

The Operators influence must have made their mind cloudy, as they began twisting and turning like an alligator, trying to get themselves free. 

He only let go momentarily, to grab the pills from inside his backpack. They would need these. Their disorientation was obvious with the way they kept stumbling over their own feet. 

Grabbing them again, he pushed them into the small closet, slamming the door behind him. Not that it would stop the Operator, of course. 

Now for the hard part. 

Looking behind them, he noticed that their right leg seemed to be out of commission. That would work in his favor. He needed to act fast, he knew It was nearby. 

Using one arm to hold the Third to his front, trapping their arms, and one arm behind their head, he pulled them both to the ground. 

He turned his head, trying to open the bottle of pills and shake one out with one hand, but their hands shot out, nails sinking into his hoodie and mask. He shook them off, but they attacked again, this time managing to pull off his mask completely.

Surprised, he let go of them and turned to look at them fully- and was met with a fist to the face. 

He unwittingly pitched backward, his face- his fake face, that is- smarted. It surprisingly hurt, more than he was anticipating from somebody so seemingly frail. He was facing the door, trying to overcome the momentary stun. 

The Operator was outside the door. He could feel It, menacing and void. But he was not afraid.  
He snapped his head back into position. 

Before they could scramble backward, he had them on their back again, knees pressing into their upper arms and his weight on their torso. He pulled down their mask, careful to avoid getting bit, and tried to hold their face still. 

He took the second they let out a yell to push a pill into their mouth. Of course, they immediately began to try and spit it out, but he clamped his gloved hand under their jaw, pushing upwards.

He could feel their legs kicking uselessly. Only when he knew they’d taken the pill did he let go, turning their head from side to side to make sure. 

Their eyes were wild and unfocused as if they weren’t able to see. **Are they blinded?** That would explain their panic. Getting off of them, he watched as they scuttled to a corner, still in fight or flight mode. 

The Operator backed away, and a moment later, It was gone.

Their nose was bleeding profusely, and something was coming out of their eyes. He had noticed earlier but was too preoccupied with getting them to take the medication. 

**Tears? No, too dark.**  
He quietly shuffled closer on his hands and knees and peered at their face. It was blood. 

They were bleeding out from their eyes as if their tears had somehow been exchanged with blood. Yet he did not panic. **Probably has something to do with their nosebleed.** That, coupled with their bruises, glazed eyes, and nosebleed, made them look particularly vicious. Like they had bitten into something still alive, blood spraying across their face as they tore into it. 

He waved a hand in front of them, curious to see if they were in fact blind. Their eyes did not follow the movement, instead continuing to dart around wildly.

On a hunch, he took off his gloves and clapped, but they did not react. 

**Deaf, blind, and mute. No wonder they fought.**

The Operator took their senses when they were directly exposed. But perhaps they could build tolerance, or somehow adapt. 

Either way, he had succeeded. They had not been taken. Slipping his mask back on, he propped himself against the opposite corner from them. He kept watch over them, observing as they slowly but surely fell asleep, likely exhausted. The entire ordeal had been a blur of claws and teeth, and now he sat in silence, reeling from what had just occurred. 

He was still keeping watch when they woke back up not too long after, only a fifteen-minute-or-so nap, confusion obvious on their face as they took in their surroundings. 

**No longer blind.**

Their attention zeroed in on him, and they pulled themselves to sit beside him, right leg dragging slightly. Their ankle was definitely injured, likely sprained.

Curious to see what they would do, he sat perfectly still. 

A weight appeared on his shoulder, and a quick glance told him that it was their head. They were leaning against him.

**What?**

He knew that they likely did not actually want to attack him, the Operators influence caused delirium, but why did they seek out physical proximity? Wasn’t it a sign of trust, of companionship? It was between him and the Masked Man, at least. 

Surely they hadn’t suddenly remembered him.  
But was this just how they naturally were, unburdened by their past memories, notions, and rules?

They shifted, bringing their limbs closer to themselves and grabbing onto the sleeve of his hoodie. He looked down, careful not to disturb them. 

They were fast asleep, chest rising steadily. A good sign. 

Only then did he allow himself to relax, relief washing over him. He had done it. He’d kept them from being Taken and twisted further. He had done it once and he could- would do it again. He could make amends this way, a secret apology for what he had unwittingly done to them. 

Peering down at them, he saw the ones he could not save on their bare face. The ones the Murderer took. Drastic measures would have to be taken, he could not let this go on. Once the Second, the Split, arrived he would have to amend his plans. Make new ones, reshape the old, whatever it took.

He would not allow the Murderer to get them either. 

The Third shifted again, head burrowing into the fabric of his hoodie. Could he sleep too? He couldn’t sense the Operator nearby anymore, maybe he could rest his eyes a bit. His earlier belief that he’d gotten enough sleep was woefully incorrect. 

He’d fix their bandages, check their leg, and examine their eyesight, hearing, and throat tomorrow. He’d noticed that when they had yelled- right before he’d shoved the pills into their mouth- it had sounded distorted. 

It most likely coincided with the dark bruising around their throat, another _gift_ from the Murderer. That, along with the numerous gashes and bruises on them, painted a picture of the struggle between them and the Murderer, of a vicious fight. 

Lightly, he reached out with a bare hand and felt the gash on the Third’s face, checking for discoloration and swelling. It was healing surprisingly well, a long break in their skin that went from their forehead to their cheek. It would most likely scar, as it was perpendicular to their face and had been exposed to the sun for a while.

They would need more food. His last run for supplies had been short, getting basic amenities for them. Tomorrow would be grueling, but necessary. So far the Third had been cooperative- well, except for earlier, but they hadn’t tried to run off or attack him. 

Maybe something left of their memories was still buried deep inside their skull, something that let them know he was familiar. He would investigate it, search and comb through what they knew, iin order to bring them into his world.

If they still easily trusted, easily cried, he could pull them in. It would work in his favor if they remained human-like. His mistake could be turned into an advantage, a member who was Turned yet still could link them to the rest of humanity.

He’d do all of it, everything, when he wasn’t actively falling asleep… when the soft, raspy breathing emanating from the Third wasn’t making him want to sleep as well. Yes, it could wait. 

They weren’t going anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little Dark Age - MGMT


	10. Electric Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Our Talons - Bowerbirds

Unfortunately, they did not wind up sleeping forever. 

They woke up shivering, cold biting at their skin. Their bones felt weak and brittle, like if they put too much force on them they’d snap like twigs. The taste of blood was strong, tangy and metallic in their mouth.

Sitting up -their head had been on the Frowning Man’s shoulder- _wait, what?_  
They whipped their head to face him, and they could see his form next to them, still asleep. 

They quickly looked away, as they’d caught a glimpse of his skin. He’d pushed his cloth mask just above his nose, probably so he could sleep without suffocating. 

Speaking of, their mask was on the floor in front of them. They wouldn’t have taken it off and discarded it like that, not with the way their face felt so vulnerable.

They went to get up and retrieve it, but their ankle gave out, sending them back onto the floor, wrists and forearms taking most of the weight. 

The movement made sparks of searing hot pain shoot up their leg, and they gasped at how much worse it hurt than before. 

_When the fuck did that happen?_

They weren’t walking around anytime soon. Reaching out, their arm stretched until it popped and cracked. Their fingers managed to grasp the mask, quickly pulling it towards them. 

Hastily pulling the mask onto their face, they noticed rusty red stains on the inside and edges. Their stomach coiled tighter, but they put it on anyway. It warmed their skin. Very helpful. But the rest of their body felt so, so cold. 

They involuntarily shivered, muscles tightening and tremors coursing through their body. _It was so warm before, why am I so cold now?_

A sudden painful jolt ran through their bones, making them clench their teeth in an effort to not wake up the Frowning Man. They laid back down, using their left arm as a pillow, facing the wall. 

The floor was hard, and they could feel their shoulder, ribs, and hips beginning to hurt from the pressure. But there wasn’t any energy left in them to do much else but breathe.

_Maybe this is temporary, it can’t last forever, right?_

They couldn't remember why or how they and the Frowning Man had ended up in the closet, but they weren't about to find out in this state. Their hands and feet were especially cold, almost numbed, and their joints hurt more in particular. 

Their wrists were useless, throbbing from the impact of hitting the floor, the already dark bruises around them worsening, blood pooling under their skin.

They shivered and twitched from the jolts of electric pain emanating from their bones for what must have been forever. The jolts made their muscles twitch and spasm, but they tried their best to keep still and quiet. Even their breathing sounded strange, raspy and crunchy. Ironically, their eyes were burning coals hot in their head, causing tears to form against their will and travel down their face. 

Eventually, their movement must’ve caused the Frowning Man to awaken, as they heard him shift around from where he was slumped against the corner.

_Shit._ They didn’t mean to wake him up. 

Silence, the only sound being their labored breathing. They’d turn around, but they didn’t think their arms had the strength to hold up their weight anymore.

Gloved hands pulled at their shoulders, tugging them up, and they looked up at the now fully masked Frowning Man. 

They wiped their eyes, not wanting him to think that they’d been crying, and gave a little wave. 

It seemed appropriate.

A jolt of electricity in their right leg had them trying to get up to curl into themselves, but the Frowning Man kept them sitting upright.

_Bones aren't meant to do this, why are mine trying to kill me?_

He took off his right glove, placed the back of his bare hand on their forehead, then cupped the side of their neck. _He’s checking me for a fever._

They didn’t have memories of someone doing this for them, but it still felt _nice._ They had no idea something as simple as contact could feel so nice. There was no other word for it, at least, they couldn’t think of one right that second. 

In the short time that they’ve been alive, they hadn’t experienced many _nice _things, with pain and fear dominating most- if not all- of their memories. This was a change of pace.__

__The warmth of the Frowning Man's hand kept the cold away, so they leaned into it. They couldn’t help themselves, and as long as the Frowning Man didn’t seem upset, they didn’t try to._ _

__Whatever the Frowning Man felt on their skin had him getting up- pulling them with him. The sudden movement made them lightheaded, head lolling to the side._ _

__His hands went under their knees and across their back, supporting their weight as he pushed the closet door open with his shoulder. Carrying them over to the mattress on the floor, he placed them down and turned around to get something from his backpack._ _

___Damn, I wish I could carry a whole person like that._ They knew their scrawny frame wouldn’t be able to handle the weight of another human, but they could always daydream. Once the world stopped tilting, at least.

The Frowning Man came back, water bottle in hand, which he held out with an unchanging expression. They weren’t about to refuse the offer, especially since their throat felt raw. They pulled down their mask and angled their face away. A few sips later and they handed it back, wiping their mouth with the back of their hand. 

Something red caught their eye- blood? There was blood on the back of their hand. It must have come from their face, but why was there blood on their face? A nosebleed? They looked up at the Frowning Man to see him wetting a rag with the water bottle.

He sat down next to them and just stared at them, wet rag in one gloved hand. _Ah._

They pulled down their mask, it was too dark for him to see much anyway, and he began to wipe their face clean. Clean of blood, they assumed. But what was strange was that he wiped around their eyes, as if the nosebleed (at least, they hoped it came from a nosebleed) had reached their entire face. 

The heat in their eyes made them shut their eyelids through the entire process, which was why they were caught off guard when they felt arms circling them. 

They stiffened, hands coming up in defense, before realizing who it was.

They didn’t protest as the Frowning Man pulled them, their back against his torso and his arms under theirs. He was sitting with his back to the wall, head cushioned by the pillow, and reached down to pull the blanket over them. It didn’t cover him much, only his legs that were bracketing theirs. 

Once it covered most of their body, he crossed his arms against their stomach over the blanket. He could probably feel his forearms being poked by their ribs. 

But still, they were confused, not understanding why he was moving them around. Was he attempting to keep them warm? And why did he move them so precisely, had he done this before?

_This doesn’t feel weird, it’s not hurting me. If it was, I would have smacked the shit out of him and ran, busted ass leg and all. Did I do this before? Is that why it feels normal? Did I feel this safe with other people, with my friends?_

The logical, rational part of their brain was wary, what if the Frowning Man was taking care of them to earn their trust, but just so that he could hurt them? But deep inside they knew that there was something more than just masks connecting them both. And besides, what did they have to lose? Their life? They haven’t even lived yet. 

But they had everything to gain. They weren’t in working condition, in fact, they were falling apart at the seams. They needed help, and everyone was a stranger, but the Frowning Man was familiar at this point. Even if it was pathetic, they had latched onto him, there was nothing else sturdy in their life. 

The Frowning Man was warm, and from what they could feel he wasn’t as thin as they were. He was solid, a reassuring presence in the sea of confusion and pain they were in. 

Another jolt, this time in their ribs. Their whole body twitched, as if they could somehow escape the electricity. They didn’t bother trying to muffle themselves since the Frowning Man was wide awake now. It hurt, but when did they not hurt in some way? 

They wanted it to all just _stop._

A hand clunkily patted their hair. _Pat, pat._

If they hadn’t been preoccupied with the shocks they would have laughed, something about the awkwardness of it was funny to them. 

_What a sight, a sickly thing being cradled by a masked person, when only a few days ago we were fighting like animals. Well, I got my ass handed to me, but it was still a fight._

They shuddered, still cold. 

Not cold, _freezing._

Only their torso was warm, with the Frowning Man’s front and arms radiating heat. Rubbing their hands together in an attempt to alleviate the chill, they realized that they could barely feel their fingers. 

_Hm. That’s probably not good._

The Frowning Man let go of them, pushing them forward slightly- _wait, come back_ \- but before they could try and look behind them, cloth suddenly covered their face. They flinched, before realizing it was some sort of clothing, and so they tugged it on.

It was the Frowning man’s sunshine sweatshirt. Once dressed, bare hands lightly held their wrists, mindful of the bruises, and slipped on too-big gloves. 

_These are his._

They waited a moment, hearing him put his mask back on, then twisted around to face the Frowning Man. At this proximity they could see him clearly, he had on a black long sleeve and was readjusting his mask. It wasn’t fitted like theirs, it was more like a sack over his head. He must’ve been tucking it into his hoodie so that it stayed fitted to his face. 

It looked more silly than scary, even in the dark.

He stared at them. 

They stared right back. It seemed appropriate to do so.

Eventually the Frowning Man let his head tilt back against the wall, breaking their impromptu staring contest (that they just won). They followed suit, readjusting themselves and letting their head lay on his torso. 

The only sounds were the shuffling of fabric as they twitched and spasmed, followed by a hiss through clenched teeth. 

Every now and then a hand would lift up and pat their head, especially after they hissed particularly loudly or jolted harshly. 

They were somewhere between sitting up and laying down against the Frowning Man, and it made breathing easier. He must have known that, which was why they’d been moved around like this. 

From this position they could feel his heartbeat steadily drumming away at their skull, _bump, ba-bump, bump, ba-bump._

The Frowning Man was alive. He wasn’t dead, or un-dead. Maybe they were alive too, maybe they were just two wild things trying to survive. 

They wouldn’t have to struggle alone anymore.

_Is this what having a friend is like?_

Something in their brain clicked, like snapping a puzzle piece into place. _He’s taking care of me because I’m his friend. He said we knew each other- and proved it_. Despite their sickness, they felt _giddy_.

_I have a friend._ It was like holding something small and precious in their hands, they wanted to keep it safe and secure.


	11. Puzzle Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How To Name Your Local Cryptid 101

They didn’t sleep, as tired as they felt, because of the near-constant jolts. 

Every time they were on the verge of unconsciousness the pain woke them back up. Their eyes began to burn even fiercer until they couldn’t open them anymore, tears rolling down their face from the heat. If they did open their eyelids it felt like rough dirt was being rubbed into their eyes. 

And then the coughing began, further agitating their throat. It was coming from their chest, rocking their whole body with each cough, leaving them gasping for air when it subsided. 

Needless to say, it _sucked._

Their only comfort was that they weren’t as cold with the Frowning Man around them, their muscles had stopped shaking and their teeth didn’t chatter. 

But to make matters worse, they probably kept the Frowning Man awake too. His breathing kept steady, the rising and falling of his chest lulling them to sleep until the inevitable electricity shocked them into consciousness. 

They couldn’t find the energy to get up and check, but they were pretty sure he was awake. All night. 

And there was still the question of why they smelled and tasted blood, or how their ankle was further injured, or why they woke up in the closet, or why they couldn’t remember any of it happening except for tiny fragments of _something_ outside the window.

There had been something outside, and whatever it was, it had been the cause of this mess.They had a lot of questions. But they had time, and they weren’t going anywhere like this. 

By the time the sun rose they felt _dead_. Un-dead. Were they undead? Did they come back to life in those woods? That would be cool. Or sad, depending on how one looked at it.

For the past hour or so, the coughing had stopped, and the sparks had been manageable. Although they weren’t asleep they also weren’t fully awake, in some sort of in-between state. So when the Frowning Man began to shift underneath them to get up they were startled, flinching as if their bones were trying to jump out of their skin.

The Frowning Man paused, waited a moment, then slowly began to slide from underneath them, lowering them down so that they wouldn’t knock their head. 

Once he got up, he stretched his arms and turned, rummaging through his bag. Once he found what he was looking for he came back, _finally_ bringing the notebook, flashlight in one hand. The dark had just begun to lighten, letting them know that the sun would rise soon. 

When the Frowning Man finished writing he held the notebook at an angle so they could read it. It took them a moment to get their eyes to focus. 

**“Need to check your ankle, eyes, ears, and throat.”**

They tried to hum in acknowledgment but it came out strange. _Fine by me, you seem to know a lot more about medical stuff than me._

They scooted up into a sitting position. The Frowning Man clicked the flashlight on and pointed it into their ear, then their eyes (they definitely didn’t flinch back) and waited for them to work up the nerve to willingly take their mask off. 

_Aaaa_ ,they opened their mouth. As soon as the Frowning Man was done they had another coughing fit, their throat agitated. 

The Frowning Man waited until their coughing subsided. 

Next was their ankle. He rolled up their right pant leg and took off their sock and shoe. 

_Well, that can’t be good._

Their ankle was slightly swollen and it felt tender when the Frowning Man touched the skin. They gave a yelp when he tried rolling it, _yep, even I know that’s bad._

The Frowning Man took out the bandages and began to wrap their ankle, starting at their foot, then making loops around their ankle and base of their foot. He used thick, grey tape he got from his bag to keep the end of the bandage down. It felt snug and secure. Finished, the Frowning Man picked up the notebook, jotting something down then turning it to show them. 

**“Sprained, but not too badly. A week of rest.”**

They made hands for the notebook. _“Can walk?”_

**“ No walking. If you need to move I carry you.”**

_Well, shit. There aren’t any crutches out in the woods. Hm, unless…_ They had an idea. A dumb one. Or genius, depending on how it turned out. 

**“Need to get supplies. Need more medicine.”**

They tried to hum in acknowledgment but it came out strange.

**“Don’t go anywhere. I’ll explain everything when I return.”**

They succeeded in humming this time. At least they’d get answers. 

The Frowning Man emptied his backpack into theirs and left, taking the empty bag with him. Once they were sure he had left, straining their ears for the sounds of footsteps, they began their genius plan. They would probably look dumb as hell, but it could work. 

Dragging themselves out of bed, they sat upright and placed their palms on the floor behind them, using their arms and left leg to lift themselves up. 

_Oh fuck, my bones._  
Their wrists were on fire, bruises throbbing. This was going to be harder than they thought. But they had to be quick because while they felt marginally better at the moment, they could end up passed out on the floor. Again.

Crawling backward on three limbs, they slowly but surely made their way into the main room. 

They smiled underneath their mask. _He said no walking, not “no crawling”._

The floor scraped at their palms as they shuffled their hands forward, and their left leg wobbled from the strain. Even their right leg was tired, and they weren’t even using it, just keeping it hovering above the ground so it wouldn’t drag. 

They craned their neck often to make sure they weren’t about to run into a wall or sharp pieces of debris, and had to stop every few paces to let their shaking muscles rest. 

_At least I cleared out some of the grime, it could be worse. And I’m wearing gloves, I could’ve hurt my hands on splinters or something._

A few more paces and they were done, they had made it. Letting their weight drop, they reached behind them blindly until their hand felt the long plank from yesterday. Sliding it towards them, they propped it vertically to the ground and began attempting to stand on one leg.

Yes, they were going to use an old wooden plank as a crutch, and _yes_ , they were probably going to eat shit. But they did not want to burden the Frowning Man any more than they already had. They _had_ to walk. Or hobble, whichever worked.

Gripping the top of the plank, they tried to maintain their balance in their left leg. Hopping a few times to reposition themselves, they managed to get upright. They were standing. That was a start, now they just had to make it back to bed. Using the plank as a makeshift crutch, they used two hands to grip the top and swing it forward a bit. Their left leg followed suit. 

Despite the gloves, their hands hurt from the rough wood, but they managed to hobble back to the bedroom, only losing their balance once.

_Success!_

They grinned, chipped teeth poking their lip. Sinking down to the mattress, they placed the wooden plank against the wall by the door frame for easy access. 

What would have normally taken them twenty seconds wound up being a fifteen-or-so minute effort that left them exhausted. The mattress made a _fwump_ sound (the same as when the Frowning Man was tired) when they let themselves fall face-first. 

_Shit, I’m tired a lot. Am I dying?_ They had barely slept their first three days, maybe three or four hours in total. But then they’d been out for two whole days- or maybe they just didn’t remember. They couldn’t really remember last night, so it was possible. _Oh yeah, and my entire life. Forgot that too._

They hadn’t really stopped to think about it, too busy trying to survive. If they dug through their memories there was nothing before waking up in the woods, but they did know things. They knew how to tie their shoes, but not how to braid their hair; the names and stories of constellations, but not their own age.

It was like something reached into a puzzle box full of their knowledge, threw out random fistfuls, then put it back together to form an incomplete picture. To form _them._ Who were they?

Their name had been thrown out, lost in the gaping void where all their memories had gone.

_My name._ The Frowning Man didn’t have one either, and they had no idea what their name had been, something else that connected the two. Maybe he forgot too, but didn’t care to give himself one. But they cared, they wanted a name of their own, not the one they forgot. 

Something new.

Running a list, too tired to get the notebook to write it down, they thought of possible names.

_Something cool, or maybe something to do with my birthplace? Both? Ah shit, this is gonna be harder than I thought. Well, it’s not like I’ve got much else to do anyway._

They turned themselves around to face the ceiling, peeling paint and cracks adorning it. Adjusting their head to lay on the pillow and pulling the blanket up and over themselves, they let out a sigh. It was still uncharacteristically cold despite the hoodie and gloves, nothing like the warm days they’d spent wandering. 

They’d spent three days in their ripped pants and sleeveless shirt, and had still been sweating until dehydration made them stop.

_I was born in the woods, the forest, what’s in forests? Trees? No, that sounds dumb. Flowers? Flowers are pretty. What’s a cool flower name? Rose, Dahlia, Clover, Iris, Violet, Lily, Ivy, Snapdragon, Sage… why the fuck do I know plant names but not the names of my family? Did I have a family?_

They didn’t like how their mind wandered onto things they couldn’t have, daydreaming about a life they couldn’t go back to. Did they even want to go back? Back to strangers and unfamiliar places? 

The nervous feeling in their stomach returned, of their organs twisting and turning. Only another reason not to think about their past. _Think about now, the present. Names. Think of names._

_Rain, Lake, Brooke, Robin, Bluejay, Briar, Fern, Bramble, Thorn, Aspen, Hemlock, Maple-_

It was almost funny, the way other’s names spilled out of their head, _and I can’t remember myself. Am I the same person? Or is the previous me dead?_

They’d have to ask the Frowning Man what they were like before, adding it to the ever-growing list of questions they had. _Speaking of, should I give him a name? Frowning Man sounds too… impersonal. And it’s a mouthful. A mindful._

Racking their empty head, they looked down at the sweatshirt they were wearing. The one that the Frowning Man always wore, and their first “gift” of sorts, even though they’d give it back once the cold went away. 

_Hmm… how ‘bout… Hoodie. His new name is Hoodie._

Truly, their knack for naming things was just pure genius.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you fantasy name generator, you're a lifesaver


	12. Mistaken

After a mind-numbingly long time, they decided that the pain of writing was worth it. They were tired of running circles in their head, they wanted to write down their questions. Pull the thoughts out of their brain and spit them out on paper. It was something to do, at least. 

Better than staring up at the ceiling and counting how many chips of paint were peeling off.

By the time they’d written every single question they could think of, they’d taken up the front and back of a whole page, leaving a blank line underneath each one. 

They wanted answers, dammit. Now all they had to do was wait. 

They listened to the birdsong, chirps and chitters filling the silence.

And waited.

They doodled little drawings in the margins of already filled pages, of trees, birds, and plants. Some they’d seen, some made up. On the inside cover they drew a little Hoodie, goofy mask even more cartoonish.

And kept waiting.

The sun rose, higher and higher in the sky. They stretched out their limbs, arms and legs cracking and popping, little vibrations in their bones accompanying the sounds.

And they waited some more.

They tossed and turned, restless. Their eyes had stopped burning, and while they still felt chilly, their bones had ceased shooting sparks. That just left them feeling tired. And _bored._

A tug.

Not physically pulling, but something tugged inside them. They lifted their head, and not a second later they heard the faint sound of crunching leaves and twigs outside. Footsteps. 

They scrambled off the mattress and yoinked the makeshift crutch, eager to greet Hoodie. It was definitely a better name than “Frowning Man.” Shambling into the main room, they spotted a flash of tan fabric and blue jeans in the distance. Their eyesight was still blurry at best so they limped closer, thrilled at having their friend back. 

The giddiness welled up in their throat and a strange noise escaped them, a high pitched trill. 

Hoodie stopped walking at that.

Confused, they limped past the doorway and squinted, trying to figure out why he stopped.

… 

Hoodie was taller than that. 

Hoodie didn’t wear a jacket.

Hoodie wore a mask.

The person outside wasn’t Hoodie.

Their excitement hardened and froze, sinking into the pit of their stomach. They backed away, fumbling with the plank as they retreated back into the building. But the person outside advanced, sticks snapping harshly as they stomped towards the building.

Panicked, they backpedaled until they came to the room, dropping to their hands and knees, crawling towards the backpack full of supplies that Hoodie had left behind. 

_The knife, get the knife, fuck, where is it? Did he take it with him? Shit!_

There! Underneath their shirt!

Desperate hands gripped the knife and they twisted around just in time to see the figure of the person standing in the doorway. 

They shuffled backward on the floor until their back hit the wall, trying to distance themselves from the intimidating silhouette. The person just stood there, broad shoulders filling up the doorway, fists clenched.

_Oh fuck oh god oh shit! What the fuck am I gonna do now!?_

The hand gripping the knife trembled, and attempts to keep it still were in vain. If the person- who was _still_ just standing there, staring at them- lunged, they had to be ready. They couldn’t run away, not with a shitty crutch, they had to stand their ground.

The figure didn’t move.

But they did, hand shaking so much it was an effort to not drop the knife. Now that they were lucid, they didn’t know if they had the guts to _kill_ somebody. To drive a knife through a living thing, layers of skin tearing and blood spilling out. 

_Please don’t move, I don’t want to hurt you. Just go away, just go just go just go just go-_

The person hunched over, and slowly began to slink towards them.

_Fuck! Don’t!_ Something crawled up their spine, knife swinging in their grip as their shoulders jumped- left,right,left- they fought to keep their eyes on the figure as their head snapped to the side.

But something about the person's face stood out. Where they thought the figure was just extremely pale, it was a _mask._

A white mask. Ghost-white skin. Black painted lips, black-ringed eyes, and surprised looking eyebrows. 

The Masked Man.

Relief calmed the beehive in their chest, and they lowered the knife.

_Holy shit! I almost stabbed Hoodie’s friend!_ They tittered, nervous and high strung, and waved. It was the appropriate thing to do after almost stabbing someone.

The Masked Man just tilted his head at them, a strangely innocent gesture from someone so intimidating. Their limbs didn’t want to cooperate, boneless, reeling from the spike of fear. The Masked Man stared down at them. They stared back, uneasy. 

Something in his demeanor changed, it was like he dropped his own knife, even though he wasn’t carrying one from what they could tell. 

His bare hand extended to them, which they took after a moment's hesitation. A harsh grip wrenched them to their feet, the Masked Mans’ strength almost pulling them off-balance. 

If Hoodie could carry them around, the Masked Man could probably snap them in half.

Straightening themselves out on one leg, they realized in dismay that they were a good bit shorter than him. Dammit. _Even with the knife, I would’ve been screwed if he attacked._

Seeing the way they stood, and the discarded plank by the doorway, the Masked Man retrieved it and wordlessly handed it to them. They nodded in a silent thanks, using it to stabilize themselves on their feet.

Now that he was closer, and panic didn’t cloud their vision even further, they took in the Masked Man’s appearance. Crow-colored hair, white, feminine mask, tan jacket (Hoodie was a damn liar, there _was_ a dress code) blue jeans, and black shoes. 

From the bits of skin showing, they could tell he was a fair bit tanner than themselves. Strangely enough, they couldn’t make out his eyes, the eyeholes were almost pitch black. Or it was a trick of the shadows, but either way they thought it looked cool.

He spoke, startling them from their thoughts.

“Where?”

They tilted their head, what was where?

The Masked Man traced a frown over his mouth. Ah.

_Wait, he can talk?_

It was a flat, even tone, but it didn’t sound cold, more like it was just how he always communicated. They’d been under the impression that nobody like them talked, but didn’t Hoodie say something about the Masked Man being “Split”? It must have something to do with why he showed more skin and spoke.

They pointed at the notebook still on the mattress. Understanding, the Masked Man picked it up and held it out to them. Taking the pencil out from the spiral, they leaned on the plank to write.

_“Went out. Said he’d come back.”_

Handing it over, the Masked Man nodded at their writing. They got an idea; even if Hoodie wasn’t here, maybe the Masked Man could answer some of their questions. He was apparently part of “ToTheArk”, he’d have some damn answers. 

Limping to the mattress- it was hard to write and stand at the same time- they patted the empty space next to them. The Masked Man obeyed, mattress sinking under his weight, peering over as they hastily scribbled out new questions for him. 

_“How can you talk?”_

“Not always here.” 

Interestingly, the Masked Man motioned for the pencil, writing a reply instead of speaking again. Maybe his throat hurt like theirs did. Either way they didn’t mind, but they were still eager to hear more spoken words.

_“What do you mean?”_

“We are the Split. Sometimes I am here. Most of the time I am not.”

His written words weren’t bold like Hoodie’s or slanted like theirs, so they had to hold the page close to their face to be able to read it clearly. It was neat-looking. 

_“Where do you go when you’re not ‘here’?”_

The Masked Man tapped his head. They understood. Sort of. Not really.

_“Name?”_

He shook his head no. They should’ve expected that by now.

_“What’s the Operator?”_

He shook his head even harder, bangs splaying across the top of his mask. A big no, got it.

_“Are you missing memory?”_

“Not I. Tim is, but I remember.”

_“Who’s Tim?”_

“The first name of our body.”

_“Our?”_

“I am not alone. We are two.”

He tapped his head again. This time they actually understood.

_He’s two in one. So that’s what ‘Split’ means, he’s literally split into two. Damn._

The Masked Man tugged at the notebook when they finished reading, and they let him have it. Handing the pencil over as well, he began to write something else down.

“You are you. But who are you?”

They hadn’t come around to choosing a name for themselves, so they used what Hoodie had referred to them as.

_“The Third.”_ It was the closest thing they had to an identity so far.

That seemed to satisfy the Masked Man. Speaking of… 

_“Can I call you Masky?”_  
A shrug. They took it as a yes.

It matched Hoodie’s new nickname, and it had a ring to it. Hoodie ‘n Masky, Masky ‘n Hoodie. They liked it. It was a stark contrast to his burly appearance, but so was his mask. A person of contradictions, he was two in one, feminine mask to a masculine body, and now a dainty name to rough hands. It all suited him though.

_“You and Hoodie, friends?”_

“?” He drew a question mark.

_“Hoodie_ = :( ” They explained, doodling a little frowny face.

“Understood. Do not know.”

Hm. They’d assumed that Masky was Hoodie’s friend. But they didn’t really know what constituted as a friendship anyway.

Masky motioned for the notebook again. “You were Taken and Turned.”

Uh. _“Unknown.”_

Masky could probably see the confusion in their exposed eyes though, so he elaborated.

“Taken, by the Operator. Turned, like us.”

_So, I was “Taken” by a monster, and made into… what? A masked person?_ A grim notion snuck up on them. What if…? 

_“Are we not human?”_

“I am not. Tim is. :( is not. You? Will be seen.”

_What._

_“If we’re not human, what are we?”_

“ToTheArk.”

Goddammit. Of course. Of-fuckin’-course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> none of this would have happened if they both wore glasses


	13. Colors

_“Does your throat hurt when you speak?”_

They really wanted Masky to talk again, they’d never heard anything like it. Sure, they’d never heard spoken words at all before, other than the one in their head that so gleefully pointed everything out, but Masky’s was unique. 

They were pretty sure outside people didn’t talk like he did. Not a bad thing, but different. 

“No.”

_“So why write?”_

“Preferred.”

Aw. Well, it couldn’t be helped. Speaking of preferences, _“Prefer being seen as a man?”_

“Our body is male.”

_“But do you want to be?”_

“No preference. I am me, Tim is himself.”

Since Masky didn’t really seem to care, they stuck with seeing him as a guy.

_“Where’d you come from?”_

“Outside.”

They huffed a laugh at that. _“Where outside.”_

“Tim’s home. Shortcuts.”

_Well at least one of us isn't living in the woods._

They hummed, curious about everything but not knowing where to even start. Well, how did people usually start? _“Did we meet before?”_

“No. But I was told of you, before you were Taken.”

_“Was I part of ToTheArk then?”_

“Yes, on the Outside.”  
Outside was beginning to look more and more like some alien planet, somewhere that had life formed so different and so strange that it might as well be placed in the next galaxy over. Did they even belong Outside? 

_“Did Hoodie ever say anything about me?”_

“That you are an ally, a student, and the Third.”

A student, huh? That was something. Too bad they probably forgot what they studied. They really felt like a _dumbass_ , there probably were so many things that they didn’t even know they forgot, things that they had no concept or name for. 

_“Anything beyond that?”_

“How to identify you.”

Hm. They didn’t really know what to do with this information. But it was nice to know that they had been recognized, it made them feel _real_ , a living creature with identifiable characteristics. Not just a brief lifespan that was born and died with nobody noticing. 

_Butterflies die quick like that. Birth, metamorphosis, death._

Any scrap of information they unearthed in their brain was a treasure, bits and pieces of the puzzle that they could start to piece together. 

_Like bones! People dig up bones and put them together to form a skeleton._

Sure, it was incomplete, but they had to start somewhere. They just happened to start with butterflies. _Egg, larvae, what’s the name? Catter... pit...ter... catterpitter. Catterpitter into a chrysalis, into a butterfly. I gotta put this down on paper before I forget._

As they drew the life cycle down on a blank page, Masky was restless, getting up from the mattress and pacing the small room. He would whip his head around every time leaves rustled or an animal made its way through the brush. 

They didn’t know how he mistook those things for footsteps, but maybe their hearing made up for their absolutely shit eyesight. 

_He’s on the lookout for Hoodie, but he’s getting all worked up. Should I…?_

They scribbled a question, something light and trivial, then tentatively made a warbling sound to get his attention. Masky sharply turned his head at that, unseen eyes boring into them. 

Their shoulders jerked- left, right, left- and their head snapped to the left with a crack, ear almost touching their shoulder from the force of it. 

_I’m going to ignore that. For now._ They lifted the notebook towards him, opened and folded to where they’d written with the pencil lodged in the spiral.

_“What country are we in?”_

Masky sat back down, one of his legs bouncing as he wrote.

“United States of America.”

Right, that made sense, they spoke English, and Masky had no accent. He handed it back, looking at them expectantly. He knew they were going to ask more.

_“What date is it?”_

“Early March. Year unknown.”

They’d take what they could get, and besides, Masky’s leg stopped bouncing.

_“What’s your favorite color? Mines the clear sky.”_

He stared at the words before writing, “The glow of fire.”

They hadn’t seen fire before, but for a second they were somewhere else. The smell of smoke, a soft orange light, the crackling of kindling, the warmth of the flames heating their bare face- and it was gone. A memory? Or just flashes of context their brain decided to cough up?

_“What’s Hoodie like?”_

They wanted to know from somebody who had probably known him for much longer, someone who had semi-complete memories, at least.

“He is silent. Does not speak. Taller than I. Not as strong. Works with codes, messages, and clues. He is the first, the founder. He is the Shell.”

_“I meant as a person, what’s he like?”_

Masky tilted his head this way and that as if trying to shake a thought out from his brain and onto the paper. It worked because a moment later he was jotting down sentences.

“Until you and I joined, he was alone. He prefers not to be alone, he’ll never say it. He’s intelligent, always planning ahead. He is observant, always knowing what I want to say. We are connected that way.”

Is he sure they’re not friends? They sound close. 

_“How did you two meet?”_

“I had emerged, confused. In pain. I followed where I was pulled to, straight to him. He was in a dark house, living there alone. We wore no masks then, but I knew he was the same as me. He regarded me cautiously at first. But then he realized, he understood what I was. That we were the same. We made our masks the next day, together in the dark house.”

They were enraptured by his story, practically seeing it inside their head. Two strangers, wary and alone, coming to realize their connection.

Gesturing for him to continue, they handed back the notebook eagerly, practically bouncing in place as he picked up the pencil. Peering over his shoulder, they watched as words appeared one after the other, weaving his tale together.

“We told our stories, of what we knew. Every time I emerged I went to the dark house. To him. But it left me tired and weak. He made a nest of couch cushions, blankets, pillows, and mattresses, so that every time I arrived, I could rest. We would speak without words then, as we laid in the dark.”

He stopped writing to crack his knuckles. _Crack-snap-pop._ A plethora of different sounds for the same action. It was strange to hear it coming from a source other than themselves, but they liked it.

“Another was beginning to be involved, and so he made plans for us. To “gauge intentions”. One night I was there alone. I attacked when he came into our home again, but began to convulse. Seizure. Too much anger, too much fear, too suddenly. Did not have a tolerance then.”

He stopped writing to glance at them, receiving an enthusiastic nod for him to continue. 

“The person is Jay Merrick. He ran, but came back. To help me. Turning me on my side and speaking nonsense. When my hearing cleared I heard him asking me where to take me. I had to speak, and I told him ‘Rosswood’. It was where :( had gone that night. When we arrived, he was ill. Tired. From the Sickness, or from his exhaustion. Maybe both. He slept, and I left. I took his knife, the one you have, just in case. I found :( and told him what happened. We agreed that Jay Merrick was on our side. But we kept our distance.” 

He cracked the knuckles of his other hand. _crack-snap-pop_  
“Not long after we found out that the Dangerous One was planning to kill Jay Merrick, to burn him alive in his home. But Jay Merrick did not remember the night he helped me, and so :( created a plan. He will not trust us, so we are putting fear in him. So he will flee, so he will not burn, so he will lead us.”

They didn’t know how such a comfortable story turned so grim and violent. But the thought of this “Jay Merrick” intrigued them. He was an ally, yet not part of ToTheArk, he helped Masky, yet he was being scared by the two masked for his own good. Strange logic, but these were strange circumstances.

_“What’s Jay Merrick like?”_

“He is Sick, human. Taller than :( . Weaker than :( and I.”

He paused, looked at them, then added to his line of writing.

“... stronger than you.” 

They felt their mouth twist in a smile-grimace, equally amused and annoyed. They seriously had to gain their strength back, if only to heave Masky over their head, just to prove him wrong.

_“You know what I mean.”_

“Too curious, reckless. But he is human in the way he cares.” He paused for a moment before adding more to the sentence, “...for people and things he shouldn’t.”

They hummed in acknowledgment, croaky and rough. Jay Merrick seemed nice, he’d been attacked by Masky but still came back to help him, at the risk of his own safety. That made him an ally in their eyes. 

_Jay Merrick, Jay, Jaybird… Bluejay._ One of the few birds they could identify, their vibrant sky-feathers standing out amongst the other colors of the woods. _Bluejay._ They might as well give him a name too. He might end up here, after all. _In ToTheArk dress code._

_“Why do both you and Hoodie wear the same color?”_ They lightly tugged at the sweatshirt Hoodie had lent to them, comparing it to Masky’s jacket. Both were a tan-ish color. 

Masky looked down at his jacket, up at them, then back down again. Did he not notice before? 

_“Hoodie said there wasn’t a dress code, but I’m starting to think there is.”_

His shoulders began to jerk slightly- _oh shit is he upset?_ Concerned by his strange behavior- as if wearing a mask in the woods wasn’t- they ducked their head to try and peer into his eyeholes. Small huffs were audible through his mask, he was _laughing._

At them, at himself, it didn’t really matter, because they’d succeeded. When he went to hand back the notebook they caught a glimpse of his eyes underneath. So he was physically human, at least, ‘cause they didn’t think a monster could have happy eyes and laugh.

Masky took a breath, trying to quiet his chuffs, and wrote, “Was unknown, is understood now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in totheark the dress code is "opposite of camouflage"


	14. Signs

He was dead on his feet.

Actually, no, he was already a dead man walking.

Although he supposed he should be used to it by now, the constant movement, it still left him worn down to the bone. 

The midday sun beat down on him, making him more sluggish than usual, with sleep deprivation not aiding in the slightest. Things had been easier when he lived in his old house, but with Merrick poking around and Krailie on the prowl, he had to leave. It was safer out here anyway, less people, less risk of being found. 

He’d managed to get enough supplies to last them both for a week if he rationed correctly, and since the Third needed nutrition quite badly, he’d gotten extra. It weighed him down, backpack pulling him down to the Earth, keeping his feet firmly planted on the dirt. 

When he’d gotten into town the first thing he did was check the date, discovering that the last time he’d seen the Third meant that they were missing for more time than initially thought.

There was an entire week unaccounted for. 

They had been in limbo for a week, possibly more, before being left in Rosswood. They’d somehow found their way into one of the places that shifted, escaping into what humans saw as the “real world”. Maybe it was pure luck or some deeply ingrained instinct, but they’d managed to find the Red Tower. 

It wasn’t always in Rosswood. It went where it was pulled to, controlled by something beyond him. 

So he carried plenty of food, water, and some extra things for the Third, along with conventional medicine. He’d noticed their new symptoms and if it was anything like his initial reaction to the Sickness they were in for a bad time. A painful, rotten time.

At least they’d have cans of beans to keep them from starving. He had not been so lucky. 

He’d been alone during the first wave, and it had left him hollow. Too much had happened for him to jump at shadows anymore, the Operator took what he feared the most and twisted it out of him and into reality. But he could ensure that history did not repeat itself with the Third. Things would be different with him having a hand in it. Not like before. 

On the way back, he’d been mulling over how to pull the Third deeper into ToTheArk. Their empathy was preserved, which would work in his favor. He wouldn’t need to lie in that case, in fact, the more truthful he was the better the chances for cooperation. 

_Tell my truth, pull them in._

A simple plan, really.

The building came into view, and he let himself breathe easier. Almost there, then he could rest. Crossing into the threshold, he could faintly hear the sounds of pages rustling and a pencil scribbling. Good, they had questions. Ones he could answer and use to convince them.

Everything would be f-

… 

Well.

This was unexpected.

The Third was sleeping soundly, head laying on the Split’s lap.

The Split looked up at him, a single finger poised over his painted lips, telling him to be silent. He was holding up the notebook with his other hand, with it opened to a blank page with the words “be quiet” written at the top.

When was he ever loud? Ridiculous.

Silently setting the bulging backpack down on the ground next to the Third’s, he began to gesture to the Split, who made no move to get up. 

“Early.” After months of practice, his movements were fluid. He tilted his head along with it, questioning. 

“Surprise.” Tim’s dry humor bled into the Split. Or perhaps he was developing his own.

Three fingers pointed up, then he clutched at his chest, fingers clenching the fabric. “Third, afraid?” He didn’t know formal signs, he and the Split had simply begun to form their own makeshift words. It worked, and so he had no reason to adopt new, official ones.

The Second nodded, then made a fist, sharply moving down and opening his palm towards the ground. “Yes. Knife, dropped.” A fist went up to his eye, which he then flashed open, palm out. “Recognition.”

He sat down and crossed his arms, gears turning in his head. He could use this too, he could share the Split’s truth, and perhaps even Tim’s. Anything to get the Third firmly on their side. He eyed them, sleeping undisturbed on the Splits’ lap. Peaceful.

The Split followed his gaze, even without seeing his eyes, to the top of the Third’s head. He looked up again, placing his arm diagonal on his torso and a fist on his chest. “Trust.” He seemed proud of it, chest puffed out slightly.

While the Third had most likely been scared out of their mind by the Splits’ sudden appearance, here they were- curled up with their head in his lap. All comfortable and snug, as if they had known the Split for all their life. 

Well, their life so far was a week. But still. The Third trusted easily. Maybe too easily, but for now it would work in his favor. 

“What think them?” He asked.

“Small.” Came the immediate reply.

He didn’t even have the energy to be annoyed. “Other.” Of course the Split would immediately gauge their size and strength, always keeping an eye out for confrontation.

“Mistook us.”

The Shell already knew that their vision was bad, it was why he wrote in big, bolded letters. He bobbed his head in understanding anyway, mostly for his partner’s benefit.

“Walked, one leg.” The Split pointed at the discarded wooden plank on the ground next to him.

The Shell regarded it, realizing that the Third had deliberately utilized an old piece of wood as a crutch. He didn’t know why they would, he had said that he would carry them. Unneeded, yet crafty nonetheless.

“Sound.”

“Known.” The Third hadn’t spoken coherently so far, and whether it was physical or mental, or perhaps both, was anybody’s guess. But they had still made sounds; growls, yelps, snarls, all wild and feral. Meaning there was a chance that their voice was not taken like his was.

“No, inside head, loud sound.” The Split elaborated.

Now that was interesting. Was the Third having auditory hallucinations? The Shell didn't worry too much though, they had likely been tired and it was a common symptom.

Seeing his dismissal, the Split thumbed the notebook, opening it up to show previous messages between him and the Third. It would have looked innocent enough, with small drawings in the margins, except they’d scratched writing on top of the words. 

“NO EYES”, “SEES ME”, “CAN’T RUN.” 

He shouldn’t have left them alone. 

“Blood, melted, eyes. Throat. Alex Krailie.” The Split may not be as calculating as him, but he was not stupid. He had put the pieces into place, understanding what had happened to the Third. Good, the hate he felt was a weapon. 

“Blood, hurt. Melted, okay.”

They had been strangled until the whites of their eyes turned scarlet. But there were no mirrors around, and so the Third had not noticed. Probably for the best, at least for now. But they definitely knew their throat was damaged, it even made their breathing sound distorted. 

The “melted” part of their eyes was normal. For them, at least. They had told him long ago the name of their condition, but like most things, he had forgotten. Yet he still knew that it was not too detrimental, just that bright lights hurt them and it made their vision blurry. Unfortunate, as they had come without their glasses. 

Actually, no, it was an advantage as well, since they could see relatively well in the dark. Their pupils, constantly dilated, soaked in more light, letting them see more when he could not. That and their hearing seemed to make up for their astigmatism. Very useful. Perfect for the night. 

“New plan. Third survives.” He had thought they were dead, and he hadn't even been sure that they’d make it through their initial few nights with him. Yet they pulled through. They survived. 

“Seen. Human?” His partner asked.

Despite the broken sentences, both of them could understand each other just fine. It might be an ability in itself, the way they inherently understood one another using little to no words. The intent of what they were communicating was always clear, almost as if it was directly being pushed into each other’s heads. That and prolonged time with one another attuned them both to reading each other's body language, a tilt of a head and a raised hand could be an entire sentence.

“Operator, away. Third safe.” He paused. “They turn. Cannot hide.”

There would be changes in them soon enough. The Operator would use their fears and weaknesses against them and their body would begin to remember what their mind could not. 

While he could actively try to prevent them from being Taken again, he had no real way of preventing the Sickness completely. Not even the pills could do that. It would sneak its way in, along the cracks of their mind that had been cracked when they were Taken by the Operator.

The Split nodded his head at that, thinking. “Break them?” He suggested. 

“No. Broken, unknown.” The Shell did not know what would become of them if they were Taken again, but he did not want to find out. 

The Third shifted suddenly, drawing their limbs closer to themselves and making a _mrrm_ noise in their throat. 

He and the Split paused, waiting to see if they were waking up. 

Silence.

They were still asleep, catching up on their sleepless night from illness. Good. They would need it. 

“Plan?” The Split questioned.

“Third with us. Ability unknown. Will see.”

Although he was bent on convincing them to join, he was not planning on letting them anywhere near the violence. That in itself could change them, with or without the Operators influence. While he was sure he could get them to concede with his plans, there was no possible outcome where they would be the ones to push the knife into a throat. Not as they were currently, that is. 

“Us?” The Split was asking what their roles were to be.

“You,” he picked up the knife from where it laid on the ground and swung in down, “Stab.” He harshly dragged a finger across his throat. “Kill.” It needed to end, here and now. Before Krailie could do any more damage.

The Split’s ability was perhaps the most powerful, with his immunity to Sickness. Unlike Tim, who coughed and heaved relentlessly, the Second had no major symptoms other than his own existence. That and he was physically the strongest out of them three. Perfect for the role of attacker.

The Splits’ hand went across his face. “Operator.” He was immune to Sickness, but not the Operator. 

Nobody was.

“Problem.” He conceded. “I hide, help if danger. Third, unknown.” The Operators was and always would be their main obstacle, since there was no known tactic to keep it away other than the pills. But the pills wouldn’t work in his plan, not with two unmedicated beings. Especially since the Operator would arrive to ward them away from attacking Krailie. 

“Heal, then see.” The Split was referring to the Third, more specifically their ankle in its wraps. 

“7 days.” He assured.

“They questioned.”

“Known. Not a problem. Do not speak of Infection, unknown to Third.” 

He could feel a skeptical stare directed at him. 

“Not a problem.” He repeated, sternly. “They cry, laugh, fear, excite, almost human. Stays.”

The Split tilted his head thoughtfully, then peered down at the still-sleeping Third. “Gave us names.” He looked back up at the Shell, a glint in his eye just barely visible.

“Hood-ie, Mask-y.” The Split used his voice, sounding slightly amused. 

Oh. _Oh._

 _How… how did they choose the same name?_ He was genuinely at a loss. _The same one. No memories and they named me Hoodie again. The same ridiculous name._ Despite the childish names, he felt something akin to relief, lightening the tension in his shoulders. 

He carefully snuck forward to press his head against _Masky’s,_ a late greeting. He’d been given a new name, after all. As simple as it was. Just as _ridiculous_ as his, too. 

Black fabric pressed against white plastic, warm and cold, soft and sturdy meeting together. A juxtaposed pair, yet twins all the same. Or, if all went according to his plans, _triplets._

It felt right to be where he was right now. Head pressed against his partner’s, guarding their new recruit from above, against all the monsters in the world, both abomination and human. Not that there wasn’t some overlap, of course. They were all proof. 

Everything he needed was in this room. His Split- or _“Masky”_ as he’d been dubbed- and his Third. The ones who would join him to the Ark. 

Masky sighed against him, melting into the greeting-turned-conversation. He knew his partner was listening to him without ears, and so he closed eyes that did not see. They were unneeded at the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the equivalent of coming home to a raccoon in your bed


	15. Acid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before and after Hoodie shows up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw // vomiting

They’d gotten tired of writing and waiting.

Placing the notebook to the side, they rubbed at their dry eyes once more, trying to stifle a yawn. Their exhaustion had caught up to them, and despite the new person- friend?- they couldn’t find the energy to stay alert. Their brain had started to feel foggy, and their blinks were lasting a second too long.

Settling their busted ankle on the small pillow, they twisted themselves around until they could lay down to sleep. Masky- god, that name was great- must’ve taken notice, as he scooted backward until his back was against the wall next to the doorframe, gesturing for them to sleep. 

On his leg. As a pillow.

Like they hadn’t been brandishing a knife at him a few hours ago.

_Sure, why not._

Lowering themselves down, they rested their head on his lap. It was surprisingly more comfortable than the thin pillow they’d been using. Their eyelids couldn’t stay open anymore, and they let themselves relax, trying to fall asleep.

A metal clang sounded right in their ear, metallic and hollow.

Their eyes snapped open as they flinched awake, head coming up to whip around. What the fuck was that? But nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and Masky seemed confused as to why they suddenly shot up.

They cupped a hand to their ear, pointedly looking at Masky. How could he not hear that? It had been really loud, and unless Masky was hard of hearing he had to have picked it up too.

Snatching the notebook, they hastily scribbled a question. 

_“Hear that?”_

He shook his head no.

_“Metal sound.”_ They elaborated.

He plucked the pencil from their hand. “No sound.”

_“Have bad hearing?”_

“No. Neither of us.”

Hm. It couldn’t’ve been in their head- it’d sounded so real. How could their brain just make up random sounds? And right before they could sleep, very rude. 

Laying their head down again, they tried to go back to being unconscious. 

_CLANG_

Eyes wide open, they flinched again. Alright, what the fuck. Something was up. 

They didn’t get up this time, instead straining their ears to try and pick up the metallic sound. 

Nothing. Just birds and leaves. 

They turned their head to look at Masky, who was looking down at them with a tilted head, confused. How was he not hearing this? It was right in their ear!

Frustrated, they firmly pressed their head into Masky’s denim-clad leg. Right as they situated themselves, they felt a hand cover the side of their head, muffling any sound. 

_Oh, that’s nice of him._

This time there was no metal clang, and they let themselves drift off.

____________________________________________________________________________

Soft shuffling, rustling, swishing sounds. 

But there was still a lap underneath their head. Someone else was here.

Lifting their head, they groggily pushed their hair away from their face to look.

Hoodie was sitting only a foot away, making complicated-looking gestures. He stopped once he realized they were wide awake and looking at him.

Sitting up completely, all tiredness evaporated, they waved excitedly. When had he come back? Yoinking the notebook and flipping through it, they jotted down what they wanted to say.

_“I met your friend, I thought he was you.”_

They handed over the notebook and stretched, arms popping loudly. Masky did the same, stretching out his legs and getting up to pace around the tiny room. 

**“I see that.”**

_“I nicknamed him Masky, and you Hoodie.”_

Hoodie hesitated for a moment before writing back. **“Known. We spoke while you were asleep.”**

_“He can talk!”_

**“Also known. He prefers to use his hands.”**

_“Can you talk too?”_

**“No.”**

_“Can I?”_

**“Unknown. Throat damaged.”**

While they had known something was up with their throat- it always hurt in some capacity- seeing it come from Hoodie, who knew “medical stuff”, made it real.

_Damn._ They didn’t even know if they wanted to talk, but they did want to have the option.

Hoodie reached into the backpack he’d taken with him, pulling out a bottle of something that rattled. It was white with a blue label but they couldn’t make out the words.

Shaking a pill out, Hoodie handed it to them with a bottle of water. They regarded it for a second, a clear blue pill, then popped it into their mouth and immediately took a sip, swallowing it down. They had no idea what it was but they trusted Hoodie not to poison them. It was a pretty color, too.

**“For fever. Need to eat as well.”**

They hummed, watching as Hoodie took out two cans of what looked to be soup. Fuck yeah. 

Carefully cutting the lids open with the knife, he handed a can to them. Wait- he’d taken out two. There were now three of them. 

They jut their head towards Masky, then pointedly looked down at the can in their hands.

**“His body isn’t hungry yet. Already ate prior.”** Hoodie assured them.

Alright, if he said so. 

Situating themselves on the mattress, they ran into a problem. How were they going to eat with somebody else here? 

Hoodie picked up on this issue, sitting next to them and turning to face the closet door. They copied him, sitting with their back touching his. Genius. 

A few minutes later and Masky slunk back in, covering his eyes with a hand as he tentatively made his way to sit down between them, forming a “T” shape, backs to each other yet not alone. 

It was an unspoken agreement that their faces were something too open and too vulnerable to be seen. Yet something about this arrangement made their chest feel warm. It was nice.

——————————————————————————————————————————

They were hunched over, stomach in knots as they expelled their meal, one hand firmly planted onto a tree to keep themselves upright.

At least it wasn’t blood this time. They had that going for them.

There was a hand- they didn’t know who’s- holding their hair back as their stomach spasmed. The strain of it made tears blur their vision and they were having trouble taking breaths in between retches. 

They shouldn’t have eaten. This sucked. 

Luckily they’d managed to limp- in record time, too- a good distance away from the building. 

They coughed, acid being rubbed into tiny cuts all inside their throat, head beginning to split down the middle, skull tearing in two and their mind leaking out.

They _really_ shouldn’t have eaten. 

Another hand was patting their back, and they knew it was Hoodie from the way he awkwardly did it. _Pat pat._

They still appreciated the gesture though. 

When they were finally done, a water bottle appeared in their line of sight, so they took a swig and washed out the rancid taste. Thank fuck nothing got dirty, well, except the dirt. 

Their legs decided it was a good idea to lose all their strength, making them sink down to sit in the dirt. A few moments passed of them just trying to get their breathing under control, their hands covering their eyes to keep the light away. 

An arm went under their knees, and another across their back, lifting them up and into the air. They stayed limp, not fighting against their autonomy being snatched away. This was getting to be a regular occurrence and they hated being so weak, so _fragile._

Their head hurt too much to look up, but they knew it was Masky from the color of his jacket and the smell of something bitter. Carried into the room, they were placed on the mattress and they managed to keep themselves upright. They didn’t want another wave of nausea to knock them over.

Their eyes were practically rolling around in their skull, they couldn’t get them to focus. The palms of their hands came up to press into their eye sockets, trying to keep their head from splintering apart. 

Hoodie, or, they were pretty sure it was Hoodie, set down their “crutch” with a _thunk_ , and a moment later two dips in the mattress on either side of them appeared. A hand lightly passed over their hair, unsure and cautious, as if they would snarl and bite. Like they were a wounded animal that could turn its fear into aggression, lashing out at- what? What was the hand even doing, moving from their hairline down to the back of their skull repetitively?

They ground the heel of their hands deeper into their eye sockets. The pulsing in their head was going right down the middle, thrumming in time with what they assumed was their heartbeat. 

Being close meant that they were injured or hurting, they’d made that connection last night while they’d been shivering and twitching nonstop. Hoodie had tried to keep them from freezing, and had succeeded, because he’d kept close. 

But they weren’t as cold now, not as much as they’d been last night.

Another hand was rubbing their back less tentatively, confusing them. Their back didn’t hurt.  
If their head wasn’t killing them, they wouldn’t have known how to react to the sudden surplus of contact. Maybe they _would’ve_ bared their teeth and bit.

They made a noise in the back of their fucked-up throat, _“Mrrm,”_ not really knowing whether it was a question or an answer.

It took. 

Too. 

Long. 

For the pain to go away, for their skull to rejoin and mesh together.

They were shaking and sweating by the end of it, leaning against a warm side. If half can of food caused this, how the fuck were they supposed to survive? If eating left them this sick and drained, they weren’t going to last very long.

_I was born here and I’ll die here._

Just like a tiny, fragile butterfly. Tragic creatures, those little things. 

They lived to die, quiet little deaths without significance. 

Masky got up first, pacing around the small room. He did that often, maybe it was the same as when they picked at their fingers, nerves and acid kept down in favor of mutilation. Did he get the same urge to pick and tear and draw blood? They hoped so, they hoped they shared that too. Maybe they all did. 

Hoodie got up from beside them as well, lugging over his black backpack and rummaging through it for something. A moment later and he pulled out two articles of clothing, tossing them into their lap. 

Peering down, they fumbled with the cloth until they could make out what they were holding. There was a black long sleeve that looked to be their size and a green jacket that was definitely not their size. 

But it did look warm. 

Clumsily, they shimmied out of their borrowed hoodie and given shirt, not caring that there were two others in the room with them. They were about to slip on the long sleeve when Hoodie put a gloved hand on their wrist, making them pause and look up. 

He had a roll of bandages in his other hand. 

Ah. 

Scooting forward, they sat still as Hoodie unwrapped the bandaging on their torso, forearms, and hands. They kept their eyes on Masky, tracking him as he paced back and forth, not wanting to see exactly how fucked up they were. 

They only looked back down when Hoodie passed something cold and burning over their back, hissing through clenched teeth at the sting and flinching away. 

Whipping their head to face Hoodie revealed that he was holding some sort of cloth that came from a package, smelling sharp and cold. 

Even without looking at Hoodie’s face they could tell he was exasperated, especially with the way he yanked open the notebook and wrote something down. 

**“Need to clean.”**

Sure, but it _hurt._ But they nodded anyway, steeling themselves when the sharp-cold pain returned. They couldn’t help hissing at it, at Hoodie, at themselves. 

_Maybe if you stopped being such a little bitch, it wouldn’t hurt._

Hoodie would clean, then bandage, clean, then bandage. Occasionally he would nudge them to lean this way and that, and they did as asked, eager to get it over with. 

Until everything had been re-wrapped snugly and securely they had remained tense, keeping their eyes on Masky and not on the awful gashes and bruises they spotted from the corner of their vision. From what they glimpsed, the wounds were half-healed and nasty-looking. 

Hoodie pat their hand, letting them know he was done.

The stinging had begun to dissolve, fading into the background of their usual pain. They always hurt in some capacity, they’d been born with it after all. Carefully, as to not aggravate their wounds, they slipped on their long sleeve, pulling on the grey shirt over it and tugging on the jacket. 

_There we go. Layers._

They offered Hoodie his sweatshirt back, which he put on instantly. He kept the hood down with his mask tucked back into the sweatshirt, making him look slightly less goofy. Slightly.

He got up to retrieve the notebook, handing it to them. They perked up, pushing their exhaustion to the side. _He said he’d give me answers._

Thumbing back to the questions they’d already written, they handed it and the pencil out to Hoodie. There were too many blanks and unknowns in their memory, and now they’d finally get a crumb of fucking context.

**“Before I answer these, I need to start from the beginning.”**

They nodded, seeing nothing wrong with that. Might as well get the whole story, leave no blanks.

While Hoodie wrote, they took the time to stretch their arms and legs, pops and cracks going off like they were a twig snapping underfoot. Picking up their makeshift crutch, they limped to the nearest windowsill and leaned the plank on the wall, balancing on one foot. Using their arms as leverage, they hopped, twisting to sit on the tiny ledge. It made them feel tall.

The sun had started to sink, pink and orange, marking the end of their first week alive. The breeze that snuck in through the window made them feel better too, wind lifting their hair and cooling their flushed face. 

Masky stopped pacing around to look at them, head tilted slightly. They used their flat hand to motion above their head and he nodded, more or less getting what they meant. They got the feeling that he felt short sometimes too.

Looking out into the woods, blurry and green, they took notice of the large, spindly trees. Those looked climbable. Eyeing their busted ankle, they decided to give it a week before trying anything overly risky. They really didn’t want to end up with _two_ sprained ankles.

Masky rested an elbow in the space available, searching outside as if looking for someone. Or something. They hadn’t forgotten- well, technically they _did_ forget- that something bad had been outside last night. 

The Operator, whatever that was. 

But they’d get answers soon enough though, with how Hoodie was feverishly writing.

It was peaceful. Their shitty eyesight was compensated by their hearing, and they never quite got tired of the breeze and birdsong. If they focused they could even hear Masky breathing beside them, further proving that they were all still physically human. Still alive and kicking.

They liked Masky, he was like them. Not just in how strange and contradictory he was, but the fact that they had both been found by Hoodie, had both been hurt in some way. 

He hadn’t told them anything, but they got the distinct idea that he had been hurt, but whether it was physically or not they didn’t know. Just that it had left a mark on him, like the gashes and bruises they had under their bandages, well hidden but painfully present.

The shuffling sound of Hoodie picking himself up off the floor altered them that the time had finally arrived. They wouldn’t be left in the dark anymore. 

Hoodie handed over the opened notebook, revealing a wall of writing taking up the entire page.   
Oh boy. Good thing he wrote in large, bold letters.

**“Before, in our old lives, “Masky” and I worked with a group of people. What we considered to be good people, innocents. In this group was a traitor, but we knew him then as a friend. His name is Alex Krailie. Remember that name.**

**Little by little, he became warped by the Operator. It is what took your memories, and what twisted us. It is not tangible, It is a force we cannot touch. It latches onto humans, giving them the Sickness and taking their minds. Everybody has different symptoms, but in the end, they are all Sick. You have seen It. You were Taken by It.**

**It began to corrupt Krailie, and he turned on us. He killed two and has tried to kill three. First, he attacked Tim, hunting him down in the night, and lured me out the next day. He left me to die, to be Taken by the Operator.**

**Krailie feeds us to It. If they are dead the body is never found. If they are alive, even if barely so, they are sometimes Twisted and Turned. That is how we were born. The First-Shell, the Second-Split, and the Third, you. You were attacked by Krailie, as his goal is to kill anybody Sick from the Operator. He feeds us to it, thinking he is a savior. He is not.**

**I do not know exactly what happened, but your injuries fill in unknowns. You most likely fought back, but lost. The gashes on your face and body, chipped teeth, bruises on your ribs, throat, wrists, and bloodshot eyes are evidence of this. Alex Krailie tried and failed to murder you. His reason was because you were Sick from things beyond your control. Yet he does not care, he only wants to annihilate the disease by killing in cold blood.**

**We are ToTheArk. We seek safety from the Operator. That means halting Krailie, as he will not stop until we are all dead. Until he kills us all again.**

**There is also another one he tried and failed to kill. His name is Jay Merrick. You worked on the outside, using my codes, making videos to guide him. Clues, hints, messages. He is to be protected from Alex Krailie. He is what will lead us To The Ark.**

**Alex Krailie fed us to the Operator, and now he has fed you to It. You are the Third.**

**Join us To The Ark.”**

They were going to throw up. Again.

What the fuck. 

_What the fuck!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exploding Head Syndrome is one hell of a wake-up call


	16. Steps

It was beginning to make sense.

A grim picture was being painted, of blood, violence, and betrayal.

They looked at Masky, who even after being threatened with a knife, let them rest on him. He had been betrayed and almost killed, hunted like an animal. They regarded Hoodie, who had taken them in and kept them from dying. He’d been lured by somebody he trusted, by his _friend._

And then there was them, the Third, whoever they were. Attacked and fed to some sort of abomination, and it took everything.

Well, almost everything.

All three of them were still alive, breathing with their lungs and hearts pumping blood. And there was Jay Merrick, somebody the two masked were trying to help. They didn’t care that they still had no idea what the “Ark” was, there was still somebody that they could keep safe, keep him from being mangled beyond recognition. 

They didn’t want anybody else to go through this, the waking up without knowing who you even were, the cuts and bruises that looked surface level but felt like they went right through you, the static implanted into their eyes that never went away, the fevers and chills and coughs and acid- everything. 

But what would it take?

Hoodie had said the Operator was untouchable. 

But Krailie? As far as they were concerned, he could bleed. 

And if it could bleed, it could be killed.

They wanted in. They had nothing to lose and everything to gain. They wanted- no, they _needed_ to help. Whether it was searching for the “Ark”, keeping Jay Merrick safe, or fist-fighting the Operator, they’d do it.

Glancing up to see Hoodie standing right in front of them, staring at them through two patches of red. Masky, to their side, was looking up at them as well, eyeholes pitch black with shadow. They were both waiting for their answer. As if it was even a choice.

Underneath their mask, they parted their lips, drawing in a shaky breath and letting out a string of disjointed sounds.

“Tts-ou-th’ar-rk.” They fumbled out, nodding their head once sharply at the end.

Hoodie let his shoulders drop, and Masky audibly breathed out a sigh. They were both seemingly relieved to hear their choice. But they still had a few gaps in their mind, and so they turned the notebook to where they’d written their questions down, handing it to Hoodie along with the pencil.

As he read and responded they reached up with their bandaged hands and felt along their face, the first time they’d deliberately done so with the intention of finding out what they looked like. 

Hoodie was right, there was an indent, scab still forming, on the right side of their face. It went from their forehead, through their eyebrow, and stopped at their cheekbone. 

Diagonal and jagged (like their teeth), ripped and torn (like their torso). 

They hoped it looked badass, at least. More intimidating. 

Well, that was probably mitigated by the fact that there was a bruise surrounding it, skin swollen and tender under their prodding fingers. But the whites of their eyes were red, so maybe that was scary-looking. 

_Blood vessels burst, their brain supplied, from being strangled._ They wondered if the bruising around their neck looked like hands. Like Alex Krailie’s hands, thumbs and index fingers pressing so hard into their throat that it left a reminder of what Alex Krailie would do to them. 

Before they could turn and somehow articulate their question to Masky, Hoodie handed back the notebook into their hand, his bold letters under their previously written questions.

_“What happened last night.”_

**“The Operator showed itself.”**

_“Why can’t I remember what happened last night.”_

**“Your mind was affected by it. You lost your senses.”**

_“Why did I wake up in the closet with you.”_

**“Took us there because you weren’t fit to run, you injured your ankle further.”**

_“Why is my ankle hurting more.”_

**“You misstepped.”**

_“Why did my knuckles hurt more.”_

**“You did not react well.”**

_“What was outside?”_

**“The Operator.”**

He handed the notebook back and they skimmed through his answers. It made sense, with the way the Operator supposedly fucked with memories, they were living proof, after all. But what the fuck did “not react well” mean?

_“What does ‘not react well’ mean? What did I do?”_

There was a certain “look” on Hoodie’s face, the way he hovered his gloved hand holding the pencil above the paper, hesitant and pensive. Like he didn’t know whether to tell them or not.

Humming, they added a lilt at the end to make it a question. _What’s he trying to say?_ After a beat, Hoodie reluctantly wrote down his response, glancing up at them when he was done and handing the notebook back over.

**“Remember the first time you saw me? That happened again.”**

Their legs stopped kicking and their spine straightened, eyes widening in alarm at the words. _“I’m sorry,”_ they hastily scribbled down, _“I didn’t mean to.”_

**“It is understood why, your body remembered what your mind could not.”**

They ignored the strange statement. _“Did I hurt you?”_

He shook his head, a lie in broad daylight that they hadn’t learned to pick up on yet. 

_“What does it look like?”_ They asked out of morbid curiosity. If it was as bad as Hoodie said it was, then it had to look the part too, right?

**“Too tall, too pale. Black body, long limbs. No face.”**

Well that was terrifying. Good to know what they were up against.

_“Is there a way of protecting myself?”_

**“There are pills we take. Keeps the Operator at bay. Gave you some last night.”**

That was one issue semi-resolved, now how about the other one?

_“If Krailie comes for us, what do we do?”_

**“You? Run.”**

They glanced towards Masky, who was perfectly content to just lean on the windowsill and watch their silent conversation take place.

_“There’s three of us, one of him.”_

**“He has the Operator.”**

They cocked their head, not understanding what he meant.

**“Think of it as his bodyguard. We cannot get too close, or It appears to ward us off.”**

Nodding their head, they took a quick glance outside. Just to make sure nothing was there.

**“Which is why we must make the first move,”** Hoodie continued, **“I have a plan.”**

_“What is it?”_

**“First we wait for you to heal.”**

They were ready to tear off the bandages just to prove they were fine, but their common sense held them back from doing something too dumb. For now. 

_Fuckin, I guess!_ They didn’t really have a choice in this. Leaning back, their legs stretched out to keep their balance.

**“In the meantime, I have other plans. I’ll be going out to keep an eye on Krailie, switching with ‘Masky’, who will watch over Merrick. One of us will always be here, for safety.”**

_“Both of you should go, I’ll be fine on my own.”_

**“No, there is safety in numbers. The Operator is more powerful when we are isolated. And if Krailie arrives how would you escape?”**

Well shit. He had a point there.

**“In a week, I have plans for you.”** Hoodie assured.

Perking up at that, their legs swung from where they dangled on the windowsill. _“What plans?”_

**“You made codes into videos. I doubt you forgot how, even without memory. It is ingrained into your brain.”**

_“I’ll try,”_ they wrote, even though they really didn’t know the first thing about technology. 

**“Merrick relies on codes. He analyzes them to get clues, he must figure them out for himself. It is the only way he will lead us To The Ark.”**

They hummed in acknowledgment, still not really understanding as to why he wouldn’t just straight up tell Merrick his messages. There had to be a reason why, but they didn’t feel the need to question him further on that.

_“How do we make them?”_

**“You were a student. On your campus, there was an old library, one that nobody but us visited. There is older technology there, tapes and computers from years ago. That is what you used.”**

_“And the code?”_

**“It is my language. I make them, you input.”**

That sounded simple enough, doable. _“What’s Masky’s place in all this?”_

**“He is strong. His limbs and ability.”**

_“Ability?”_

Hoodie looked like he’d forgotten to mention something to them, hand holding the now dull pencil going down to his side. Masky looked interested, leaning further on his elbow and crossing his legs, hand on his hip.

**“We all have abilities. With different symptoms, the Sickness leaves a gift. We move through space like the Operator, put words into each other’s heads. More specifically, I read code as easily as language. ‘Masky’s’ specific ability is his immunity to the Sickness.”**

_“Space? Words in heads? Immunity?”_

Hoodie stared blankly at the notebook in his hand, as if trying to figure out how he could explain it to them without making things more confusing.

“Space = moving distances without walking. 

**Words = talking, but without sounds or hands.**

**Immunity = ability. ”**

He put it simply, then added more after seeing their confused expression.

**“The Operator does not run or walk, It simply appears. We can imitate it, moving distances without walking. Not wise to use in excess, drains energy and can hurt. For the words, it is like sharing thoughts.”**

They hummed in feign understanding.

**“Abilities are give and take. I cannot speak, yet anything hidden in words and numbers is clear to me. ‘Masky’ does not get ill from the Sickness, yet he is temporary, reverting to his Other. He only emerges if his Other seizes from lack of medication, the pills.”**

They eyed Masky, who looked back at them with a knowing glint in his eye. If he and Hoodie really could speak without words, he had to know what they were talking about. No wonder he didn’t seem too bored, he was listening. Sneaky bastard.

_“Will I develop that too?”_

**“Unknown. Most likely you will be able to move through space. It is highly useful for escaping, although each of us has a different range. ‘Masky’s’ range is much smaller than mine, for example. I can go further.”**

A word popped into their head. _“Teleportation.”_

**“More or less. It is residue, an unexpected gift from the Sickness.”**

They, for one, thought it was the coolest fucking thing they’ve ever heard.

**“Do not use it in excess, you will become ill.”** Hoodie must’ve seen the look in their eyes. He was no fun.

_“Teach me?”_

**“In a week.”**

Oh, he really was no fun. So what if they were battered and blue, this was teleportation he was talking about, and a few scrapes and bruises hadn’t killed them. Well, Krailie almost did.

_“What are you going to do about Krailie?”_

**“End him. End this. If we do not, Merrick will die and we will all be killed.”**

The stakes were clear; it’s him or us. And looking between their new friends, they made their decision. There was someone else on the line, someone outside of all this, they had to keep Jay Merrick in mind. The innocent third party. 

_“So we kill him.”_ It was horribly simple. 

A nod.

_“How?”_

**“One step at a time. First, you recuperate.”**

Rolling their head to face Masky, it was a silent plea for assistance to try and get Hoodie to loosen up. He just shook his head, eyes smiling, of no help. 

Huffing, they let themselves tilt back a bit before trying to compromise. _“Teach thought-words?”_ That got a nod out of Hoodie.

**“Requires practice.”**

They bobbed their head eagerly, leaning forward now. 

**“Listen without ears.”**

They didn’t have time to register what that meant before Hoodie did something that surprised them, leaning his head forward until their foreheads touched. They sat still in pure confusion, not hearing jack shit. There was nothing- 

-̴̨̨̯̬̝̞̣͎͕͎̹̻̭̻͚̉̊̐̽̔̉͋̂̄͛̿̔̃͝c̵̙̣̮̞̱̪̎̃͐̍̇́̈̒͌͑͘͘͝͝a̵͓͍͛̍͂̋̽͛̐͝ṅ̵̢̧̢̩̟̖̤͖̞͙͔̰̯͚͕͔̫̍̾̐̎̔͛͠ͅ ̶̨̛͕̳̩̻̟̼͚̙͎̬̩͚̻͍͍̟̞͑̃͘͝y̵̙̯̫̼̘͍̿̾̋̄̂̎̎̋̂̂͆͜͠͝ơ̵̤͎͌͆̂̆̔̈̂̈́͗̿̐͐̅̈̐̚͜͝ͅu̶̢̗͈̣̘͈̟͖̳̣̮͚͇͍͒͑̈́͌̾̄̽̓͒̓̎͘͜͜ ̷̡̨̧̛͚̘͔̝̼̟̥̦͖̥̦͇̘̠̲̇̀͊̆͗̆̔̾͒͒͆͋̽̍͌̈́͊̍͘̕ͅͅḧ̴̨̨̯̪͍̗̜̖̫̩͖̥̗̎e̴̛͓̮͖͇̠͔̾͒̅̎̅͆̔̏̃̅̚͘̕͜͝ͅã̶̘͖̟̈́̂͒͐̅̈́̔̒̉̈̌̕̚̕͝r̶͍͎͐͝͝ ̸̨̧̛̹͎̞̰̘͎̻̞͇̲̟͍̏̏͋̆́̈́̍̓̒͗̊̂̚͝G̴̢͍͇̗̙͙̦̞̪̼̦̫̞̱̻̬̈́̊́̉̑͂͆͛o̵̢̯̪̝͈̽ͅd̶̡̻̝̘̝͈̮͍͙̟̫̳̬̹̱̠̖͙̬̾͌̍̅̐͋̾̽̕͘?̴̢̧̗͓͖̳̲͍̹̭͈͕̳̖̮̌̄̑̒͋̈́̆͛̎

_What the- oh shit!_

The sudden distortion startled them so badly that their hands flew to cover their ears as they flinched backwards, losing their balance and falling right out the window and landing on the grass outside. 

_“Oof!”_ The air in their lungs was pushed right out of them from the impact, leaving them breathless.

Their right ankle miraculously stayed undisturbed, having landed on their left side. Black and white masks peered over the ledge, then disappeared to the sound of footsteps hurrying towards them. 

Laying sprawled on the grass they gave a thumbs up just as the two masked came into view from around the corner. They wheezed a laugh, incredulous. Horrible timing, really. They’d just been advocating that they were healthy enough to start Hoodie’s plans. 

And fallen through a window. 

They were the pinnacle of health, truly.

A pair of hands pulled them up from their underarms like they were some sort of misbehaving animal, arms jutting out at an angle as they were lifted into the air.

Craning their neck to look behind them, they saw Masky’s pitch black eyeholes staring up at them in the dimming sunlight. 

_I’m not hurt! And that was barely a fall!_ They huffed and squirmed, wanting to be put down.

Hoodie was looking them over, brushing off bits of leaves and twigs that had stuck to their clothes. Satisfied, Hoodie motioned for Masky to bring them in. Still holding them up, Masky strolled inside, carrying a whole human like it was nothing. 

Goddammit. Deposited them on the mattress, they crossed their arms, disgruntled. Couldn’t someone just fall out of a window in peace? 

Hoodie was jotting something down for them. **“This is why we wait.”**

_“I’m not made of glass!”_ They responded, indignant.

**“No, you are made of bone. Bones break.”**

Smartass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the third has had two concussions so they cancel out


	17. Mimic

_“Can you say ‘ToTheArk’ out loud for me?”_

Masky’s head tilted back as he regarded them from where they were sitting on the floor, their arms outstretched to show him what they’d written.

_“I want to hear it said right.”_

The masked looked at them then glanced at the doorway to the bedroom, where Hoodie had been and presumably still was fiddling with a camera. When he didn’t respond, written or otherwise, they began to grow nervous, fingers cracking and knuckles popping before they picked up the pencil again.

_“Only if you want.”_

More staring, as they now had come to expect from Masky. 

They couldn’t quite see his eyes despite the bit of sunlight that shined on his face from where they sat on the “living room” floor, his eye holes being a bit too low.

It was like he was sizing them up, evaluating how much force it would take to knock their lights out if they made a move, if they lost their mind and went for his throat.

 _Flick_ , went the white lighter he fiddled with, _flick_ , extinguishing the little light of the flame.

They held his gaze, watching him as they propped themselves up against the cinderblock wall, only about two feet away from where he leaned against the adjacent window ledge. 

Their crutch was forgotten for the time being, it’d started to irritate the skin of their palms that peeked out from under their bandages. Turns out using an old wooden plank wasn’t the ideal substitute for a crutch. 

Seeing as Masky wasn’t comfortable with speaking, which they understood, they continued to try and sound out individual letters, the foundation for words, then phrases. 

It seemed daunting to them though, all those little sounds had to be said just right in order to just make one word, nevermind a sentence full of ‘em. 

“To.” Masky’s toneless, muffled voice snapped them out of their thoughts.

“Tts-ooh.” They repeated, a mockery of what it was supposed to sound like.

“The.” _Flick._ Masky made it sound easy. _Flick._ Effortless.

“Tth-uh.” Their chipped teeth poked at their tongue.

“Ark.” _Flick._

“Aah-rrck.” It sounded more like they were choking than they were talking.

“To The Ark.” Masky repeated, voice soft from being muffled.

“Tts-oo...th’eee...aah-rr-k.” They drawled out, trying to get the pronunciation to match. 

Repeating it a few more times, they couldn’t help but scrunch their nose and grimace at their own voice. At barely above a whisper, it reminded them of something rusty and broken.

It was beyond frustrating, they could “say” it in their head just fine but when it came to getting it past their teeth… 

“Too thee aark.” It was beginning to sound more clear, more like actual words rather than sounds thrown together crudely. 

Masky nodded, seemingly in approval.

The Third smiled at Masky in return, toothy grin concealed but still evident through their eyes peeking out from behind their scruffy hair. Three words down, a million left to go.

Yet they were satisfied with the three that they had for now, since it was ridiculously difficult to get words out of their head and into the air. A whole lot of practice would be required for them just to be able to say the three words.

Back to written words it was.

Untucking the notebook from under their arm, they pulled the pencil from where it’d been lodged into the metal spiral.

_“What’s the lighter for?”_

Digging into his back pocket with a free hand, Masky pulled out a little box of something, laying it label-up on the dusty window ledge for them to squint at.

 _“What’s that?”_ They tilted their head at the red and white package. _Mal-bo-ro._

“Don’t know,” Masky wrote back, “Tim likes them.”

It hadn’t occurred to the Third that they weren’t the only ones not only missing memory but also missing knowledge.  


_“Does Tim know you?”_ They tried to word it in a way that let Masky know they saw him as his own being, not a parasite leeching off a host body.

A shake of his head and his crow-colored hair went back over the top of his painted plastic face. 

_Flick...flick_

_“Does he remember what you see?”_

“Not at all. He just wakes up as if he’d been in a dreamless sleep.”

_“How do you wake up?”_

“Painfully.” He wrote, and didn’t elaborate.

They stopped asking questions, not wanting Masky to have to bring up old memories that would only hurt. Picking up the colorful box to examine it, their thumb slipped open the top to reveal small tan and white sticks.

 _“Does Tim eat these?”_

A muffled, amused huff let them know that the sticks _weren’t_ for eating. 

“Tim lights these on fire and inhales the smoke.” 

That sounded more far-fetched than just eating ‘em. _“Show me?”_

Handing the pack back over, they watched in fascination as Masky flicked on the lighter and dipped the white end of the stick into the flame, making it glow red-hot and smoke slightly. 

What they didn’t expect was for Masky to push his mask up enough to expose his mouth, bringing the smoking stick up to his lips and breathing it in. He held it inside of him for a second, then breathed back out, smoke curling up his mask and dissipating into the air.

So _that_ was the bitter smell that clung to him. They scrunched their nose at it slightly.

With one hand writing, smoldering stick in the other, Masky instructed them on how to use it. “Put it to your lips, then breathe normally through your mouth. Don’t go too fast or it burns.”

Carefully, Masky handed them the stick, mindful of the still lit end. With their bloody fingers they held the little stick up to where their mouth was behind their mask and hopped on their good leg so that their back was turned to him. 

Only then did they pull their half mask down and do as Masky had written, but as soon as the bitter smoke registered in their throat they coughed, eyes watering.

Masky’s quiet huffs, his way of laughing that was so unlike their piercing-sharp barks, soothed the burn in their throat. A few more coughs and the smoke left their lungs, leaving behind a warmth that they weren’t sure came from the fire or not.

Pulling their mask back up they turned, about to hand the stick back over but all the sounds died in their throat because Masky’s eyes were _glowing._

White shining circles where his eyes should have been.

“Mmwh!” They fervently gestured at their own eyes, then back at him, trying to get him to notice that his eyes were somehow _glowing in the dark._

Confused by their sudden and seemingly unexplained reaction, Masky tilted his head and the white glow vanished, leaving his eye holes pitch-black once more.

Absolutely dumbfounded, they hopped forward, shoulder scraping against the wall until they could close the gap between themselves and Masky, reaching out slowly as to not startle him.

He didn’t stop them, simply continuing to lean against the windowsill as they tentatively nudged his head back to where it had been- _okay what the fuck._ They retracted their hand and Masky didn’t move his head, letting them see the strange spectacle.

The angle at which the sunlight was catching his eyes was making them fucking glow like an animal except Masky was a person, he was _human-_

_But didn’t he say that we’re not human?_

Masky blinked, extinguishing the flame for a split second, with the white shine still burning bright in his skull as soon as he opened them.

_“Eyes glow!”_

Masky moved his head to read the words and the white light disappeared, but a second later they heard him huff in what was hopefully amusement before he uncrossed his arms and responded in writing.

“Normal.”

“Wh!” They sputtered, because how the _fuck_ was that normal. Sure, they didn’t really know how eyes worked, but they didn’t just _light up_ like that. 

“You have it too. So does : ( .”

Instead of processing what the hell Masky just told them they reached back out and adjusted his head, nudging his face with their hand until his eyes caught the fading sunlight at just the right angle.

White.

The Third cocked their head to the side, trying to get a better look at the phenomenon. The twin spots shifted as Masky looked around, disappearing when he blinked and reappearing a second later. A huff, of annoyance this time, and they let go of Masky’s face.

_“So we all have white eyeshine?”_

That made him shake his head no, crow-colored hair getting all across the top of his face again from where he’d pushed it to the side previously. 

“ : ( is red. Yours is green-yellow.”

They snickered. _“Grellow.”_

Masky didn’t even pretend to understand what they meant by that, instead plucking the stick from where it had begun to turn to ash between their fingers and stubbing it out against the wall.

 _“Is that why my eyes burned before?”_ They were referring to the previous night, when they’d spent the entire night and early morning absolutely miserable.

“Maybe. Everything hurts to gain.”

_“?”_

“If something strange hurts, it’s changing.” Masky explained.

Now that he mentioned it, their teeth had been aching. They’d just chalked it up to part of their headache or because a few of them were chipped or something but what if…?

_“Can teeth change?”_

“Anything can.”

Ah. Wonderful. They didn’t feel any obvious changes but if Masky was right they could wake up with fucking animal teeth, if the pattern continued. Great. 

_“We see better in dark?”_ There had to be some good to come out of this. Some advantage, something worth the pain.

His head dipped slightly, a yes. 

_“Why do we have?”_

“Told you we are not human.”

_“But how?”_

They only got another shrug. Hoodie would probably just give them the same answer, something about it being a “gift” because they were sick.

 _“The eyes are cool.”_ They meant in in earnest, because while there might be a whole world of pain in store for them at least it looked fucking rad.

Masky mulled over their statement before responding.

“They are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't eat cigarettes, kids.


End file.
